


The Impossible Happens Every Day: a 30 Day OT3 Porn Challenge

by qwanderer



Series: Color (Green) and Pattern (Measured) [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 26 chapters are explicit, 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, Angst, Coulson Lives, F/M, M/M, Multi, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Porn With Plot, Present Tense, SO, and with an OT3, but also a story, but influenced by it, but they don't find out until Day 7, prompts are out of order, to the point where it's slightly spoilery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 57,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwanderer/pseuds/qwanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The delicate negotiation that is Bruce Banner's sex life is... a little more crowded than you might expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1, Prompt 2: Awkward sex / things that don’t go as planned

**Author's Note:**

> So you totally don't have to think of this as what happens after The Control of Tension. It's kind of its own thing off in this whole other direction. I've just been getting fonder and fonder of Phil Coulson.
> 
> This story is thoroughly outlined and will, in theory, update over the next thirty days, but who knows? This first chapter took all day. The prompts are out of order but will all be dealt with, at least in a "this prompt inspired this smut" kind of way.
> 
> The first three chapters take place between chapters 11 and 12 of The Control of Tension. The following three happen between The Control of Tension and Continuing Mission. The rest are afterwards, in a Plot Twist.

Bruce unstrings his bow, and he's finally starting to understand why Clint's so hesitant to do just that when he's troubled or stressed; it's a sudden loss of direction, a bit like closing a book after reading it, a really excellently distracting book. 

Today, though, the quiet of the range clings to them with their sweat; Bruce watches Clint go through the familiar motions out of the corners of his eyes, looking as comfortable, satisfied and tired as Bruce feels. 

Clint graces him with a crooked grin as they get into the elevator. "You're gettin' good," he says, leering a bit at Bruce's arms where newly swollen muscles make themselves known. "Form was right on, made it look easy. You in the zone as much as it looked like?" 

"It did feel pretty good," Bruce says with a quiet smile. "And I beat my top score again. Still not exactly competitive level, but then that's not why I do it." 

"Yeah? You got some ulterior motive for these lessons you keep demanding?" Clint asks, bumping his shoulder up against Bruce's. 

"It's all a ploy to spend more time with you," Bruce agrees, and one of his hands shifts, fingertips skimming up the back of Clint's sweat-damp tee shirt. Clint responds with the barest of shivers, then he chuckles and turns his body to face Bruce's. 

"That all?" he asks. "Nothing to do with how it drives me crazy to see you like that, sunk in so far that you're one with the weapon and forgetting to be self-conscious? Standing straight an' no hesitation? It kinda floors me." 

"I'm pretty sure that's my line," Bruce says, enjoying the feeling of Clint's eyes on him and Clint's arms bracketing him against the side of the elevator. 

"Well, you were taught by the best," Clint quips, stepping back and out of the elevator as the door opens, his grin daring Bruce to follow. 

It's amazing, Bruce thinks as he follows, how Clint can get him going without pushing or even really touching him. Bruce smiles, willingly trailing after his boyfriend towards his own bedroom. 

Clint stops to snag a coconut water as they detour through the kitchen, holding it up and giving it a little shake to check for approval. Bruce nods - tangerine sounds good today. Clint pops it open and downs half of it before handing it off for Bruce to finish. It's sweet and bright and perfect. 

Clint goes about life in this way that means every little thing is deliberate, but none of it's too big or heavy to shrug off. Having him around - everything's just a little easier. 

Bruce slips through the bedroom door to see Clint shedding his shirt, and he is done with the chase. He slides into his place in front of Clint, hands on the archer's shoulders and lips just brushing Clint's, asking for but not stealing a kiss. 

Clint gives a little, putting his hands over Bruce's and sealing their lips together in a brief, wonderful, tangerine-flavored kiss before pulling back, pulling Bruce towards the bed by his hands. 

Bruce follows, of course, a tiny groan escaping him as he does. He settles into the bed willingly but then pulls Clint in closer, pulling the archer's hands to his chest. "Do you have any idea how much I want you?" he asks, voice rough. 

Clint smiles and rubs at Bruce's chest over his damp shirt, almost just a comforting motion until he runs over a nipple with his thumb and Bruce gasps. "You know, I think I just might," he answers. He puts his forehead to Bruce's, their grounding position, and they check in with each other, breath puffing hot and quick and eyes shining with want. 

"I want you so much, Clint," Bruce says, looking into those blue eyes and willing him to know. 

"I know," Clint answers. "I feel it. The tension. How much you're holding back." 

Bruce closes his eyes in acknowledgement, letting himself feel his own state, how the Hulk growls and thrashes in his mind, how letting go to a tide of emotion is so close and so tempting, how all his love and desire for Clint rides on the surface of that tempest now and demands to be felt, to be expressed. 

"I love you," Bruce gasps, clinging to the archer's wrists, keeping those phenomenal hands on him. "I want you... I want everything." He takes a breath. "I want you to fuck me. Today. Now." 

Clint's breathing hitches. "You sure?" he asks. 

Bruce looks at Clint's eyes once again with that same intensity. "I'm sure I want to try." 

Clint grins. "Okay. Let's give it a shot." And he lowers his head to kiss Bruce again, slow, deep, aching, a thumb stroking Bruce's jaw as a reminder to stay relaxed, stay level. 

The kiss and the spoken intention are feeding the knot of anticipation in Bruce's gut, half joy and half terror, and Bruce's return of the kiss is shaky, stalling. Clint pulls back, looking again. "You really sure?" 

"Clint," Bruce gasps. One of his hands moves to Clint's shoulder, squeezing, reassuring himself. "I need this. I need to try. I don't know if I'll be able to let this happen, but letting that stop me, that's a dead end. Because half of what's got me tied in knots right now is being afraid of having to stop. I think maybe I need to try and fail. Is that okay? Just to stop me from feeling like it'd be the end of the world." 

"Yeah," Clint says, nodding in understanding. "Yeah. I gotcha, Bruce. Whatever you need." His hands lay against Bruce's cheeks, just comforting, and his earnest clear blue eyes meet Bruce's, calm and accepting and unflinching. 

"Thank you," Bruce says, a half-spoken murmur, and Clint shakes his head at it, as Bruce knew he would, and kisses Bruce's nose and forehead before pulling away just far enough to help Bruce out of his shirt. 

Bruce leans up to make it easier, and he kisses the sweaty planes of Clint's chest while he's there, tasting salt and smelling Clint and knowing that he's safe. He breathes that in, trying to loosen the knot at his core. 

They've talked about this before, Clint's even broken out the lube and gotten Bruce used to the feel of it on his ass, used it for long slow handjobs that mapped every inch of his balls, but he's never been penetrated; he'd sort of got the idea that once any part of Clint was inside him, he'd want everything too badly to stop. It's seemed pretty big. It's been looming, promising and terrifying, despite all Clint's been able to do to smooth the path up to this point. 

Once Bruce's shirt is off, Clint kisses and strokes down his chest, undoes his shoes and then his pants, peels them off and kisses Bruce's thighs and knees. Clint kicks off his own shoes but leaves his workout pants for the moment, one more reminder to be calm and slow, that not everything has to happen at once. 

Bruce watches, mostly, but then he reaches for something to grab, something to focus on that isn't his own body, and Clint's hand appears under his like magic, and they tighten on each other, reassuring. 

Clint is perfect, strong, slow, careful, and Bruce wants him more than ever, so when he reaches for the lube, anticipation is at the forefront. 

Hulk is restless, feeling the jangle of nerves but still too angry at Bruce to open his eyes to what's actually happening. 

Bruce wants this too badly; this has always been the problem, and it's going to keep being the problem until he faces it. Clint has lube on his fingers and he's looking to Bruce for one more signal, because he can see the tension building. Bruce nods to go ahead. 

Clint starts with another kiss, grounding the two of them again and cradling Bruce's neck with his dry hand. Then he traces a line with his thumb through the hair on Bruce's chest, down the center of his belly, and finally gives the scientist's cock a firm stroke, getting him used to the feel of the lube and linking it back to good memories. Only then does he reach for his ultimate goal, sure fingers spreading lubricant generously across the bunched muscle. 

Bruce is in a chaos of sensation and thought and emotion, trying to balance all three of them and not quite failing. He's clinging to Clint's shoulders, burying his face in the other man's neck, focusing on that set of sensations that means home and safety, the smell and the taste and the feel. 

Clint's finger pushes in, and the archer is murmuring pleasure and reassurance and endearments by turns; it's the closest thing Bruce has seen to a sign that Clint has to make an effort to control himself, to keep things slow. He's wanted this too, a lot, and words are pouring out of him, small, quiet, urgent, and knowing that kind of adds to the tension, but at the very least it gives Bruce something to focus on that isn't the burning digit pushing its way inside him. 

Bruce breathes deliberately; he can do this. He wants this so much. He breathes as the second finger slides in, fighting not to fight. 

Hulk can sense there's a moment ahead, a crux, a moment in time that could go one way or another and change everything. He can sense that Bruce is worried, worked up, tense, that there's pain. But he still can't see past his own rage to understand the truth of what's happening. He still won't listen to Bruce. He only knows there's a choice ahead. He prepares to act. 

Clint is carefully not getting lost in the sensation of Bruce around his fingers; he checks in, watching his lover's face. Bruce looks tense, more than he has before in this bed, but Clint trusts Bruce to know his limits, trusts himself to move slowly enough. He pulls his hand free, and he sits back just a bit to look at Bruce laid out before him, breathing hard and waiting. This might work. 

Clint registers a thought. "Might be more comfortable if you turn over," he says. 

Bruce rebels at the thought of turning away from Clint, of not being able to see or touch his archer. It's a sudden jolt of negative feeling, and with how Hulk's been hovering, it nearly brings him crashing out. 

"No," Bruce says, shutting his eyes and throwing his hands over them. Clint freezes, and Bruce breathes. "Wait. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but you need to get back." 

Clint grimaces, but he does as he's told, retreating to the other side of the bed. He can't quite stop a small noise of disappointment escaping from between his teeth. But he immediately compensates, saying, "I got it. It's okay, Bruce. Anything you need?" 

Hulk had been stomped down fiercely, Banner angrier at him than he had been in recent memory. Hulk doesn't know what happened, but now all there is in their shared mind is aching frustration and disappointment and somehow it's all Hulk's fault again, even though he hasn't come out. 

Hulk is confused, and Hulk is still mad. But Hulk knows he needs to know more, and he opens out just the barest amount. 

He scared the Hawk away. Clint is sad and in pain. Hulk's fault. 

Hulk howls, the storm of rage turning sour with despair. Hulk can only smash. 

Bruce rubs at his temples. "I'm sorry, Clint," he says, curling into himself a little. "We'll try again another day?" 

"Of course," Clint answers. And he gets up, and goes to take a shower.


	2. Day 2, Prompt 26: Sex at work/school/ancestral home/other wildly inappropriate location

The shooting range in the Tower is used most often by Clint, it's true, but it's a gun range as well as for archery, and also used fairly regularly by Natasha, Steve, and even occasionally Tony, to keep themselves in practice. So pretty much anyone who lives in the Tower might walk in at any time. 

So when Bruce kneels down in front of Clint while he's training with his bow, Clint gives the physicist a bemused look. "What exactly are you plannin' on doing down there?" he asks, before aiming and loosing another shaft. 

Bruce breathes himself calm before answering. "Probably about what it looks like," he says, as matter-of-fact as he can. 

This time Clint's glance down holds more concern. He points his bow at the ground, letting the string back slowly. "Here? Can't say I'm opposed, but... you know you don't owe me anything, right? Yesterday... I knew going in that that kinda stuff was part of the deal." 

"It can't have been fun," Bruce says, and his hands find resting places against the backs of Clint's knees. He looks up at the concerned face above him. "But that's not what this is. This is for me. This is to stop yesterday from happening again. Because Hulk needs to learn that sometimes I'm nervous about the things we do..." and Bruce presses his face into the fabric of Clint's pants as he continues, "...but I still really want them to happen." 

Clint's breath hitches, and his expression transforms into a kind of loopy smile. "An' you really want this to happen?" he asks, just for extra clarity. 

"Yeah," says Bruce. "I do." 

"Should I keep shootin'?" Clint asks. 

"If you think you can," is Bruce's flippant answer. 

"Oh, it is _on,_ " Clint responds, raising his bow again, a huge grin on his face. 

Bruce draws his hands up the back of Clint's thighs, lightly squeezing the archer's ass. Clint releases his arrow, nails the center of the bull's eye, and grabs another arrow and nocks it. He isn't breathing much harder than he was before Bruce came in. 

Hulk can feel the blood thudding through Bruce's veins, the way he's anxious, eyes flitting to the door. But it's much less than it was yesterday. Bruce has been caught in too many compromising positions to really dread being found like this. And Hulk is now more hesitant to force his way out. 

Bruce's lips skim across Clint's fly, hot breath puffing through the fabric. Clint doesn't visibly react, holds his draw until he can be sure he'll make his shot, and looses. Then a tiny groan escapes him before he reaches for his next arrow. 

Bruce unfastens Clint's pants, pulling them down just slightly, just enough to allow Bruce full access. Clint's cock is half standing, and Bruce cradles it in his palm as he frees it, admiring the way it twitches and stiffens in response. 

The appreciation and thrilled nervousness are confusing Hulk to no end; why would Banner be so happy about something he's also afraid of? Hulk opens up slightly, curious. 

Bruce takes the head into his mouth, tongue working gently at it, taking in the familiar taste of Clint. Clint's breathing has gone quick and shallow, but his bow hasn't wavered; he takes another shot. It's good. Everything's good. Everything's lining up perfect, and God, Bruce is just taking him in like he's starved for Clint. The archer takes an extra moment, this time, before he can reach for the next arrow. 

There's no danger here, Hulk sees, just beloved-Hawk in a familiar place, a safe place. Hulk doesn't understand, and he's still too mad at Banner to ask. But he retreats, settles, keeping awareness open in case something changes. 

Bruce has one hand on Clint's hip, another playing across his balls, and he's got as much of Clint's length in his mouth as he can while still being able to breathe. He's considering trying to go a little further, and across the back of his mind is a shiver of "What if Captain America were to walk through that door right now?" 

But Hulk's not thrilled about the particular mix of emotions going on right now, so Bruce decides not to push him any farther. Instead, Bruce moves a hand to the base of Clint's cock, squeezing lightly there while sucking gently on the rest, enjoying the sound of Clint's uneven breath and putting everything he's got into making the archer lose his composure entirely. 

Clint looses his next shot in the space between breaths, exactly where he aimed it. But Bruce sucks a little harder in response, and Clint fumbles as he reaches for another arrow. Bruce sees out of the corner of his eye and chuckles, and the vibrations bombard Clint, who curses appreciatively and twitches forward just a hair before regaining a handle on himself and nocking his new arrow. 

Bruce sees the response the laugh got, and he hums, expressing an "aha" and experimenting with it. Clint stands steady this time, holding his draw, but he _groans,_ long and deep and helplessly primal. Bruce smiles around him and goes to work with his tongue, first spreading across the lower surface and dragging back as he sucks again, then making its way behind the ridge at the tip, first on one side and then the other, and finally pressing into the slit, and Bruce hums again as he does this, and his hands tighten and tease. 

Clint gasps, then stills enough to loose his final arrow, then his bow droops towards the ground as he loses his cool, muttered words tumbling over each other in an effort to make themselves known. "Ah, shit, Bruce, that's... gonna... so good at that, Jesus, I'm losing it...." Clint's draw hand lands fluttering on Bruce's head, working fingers shakily into Bruce's hair, careful not to tug, and his hips twitch forward again, and his words lose coherence entirely as he comes, hard and pulsing, into Bruce's mouth. 

Bruce swallows it gladly, and there's a definite satisfaction making its way through his mind; he swallows again, watching Clint's reactions as they shift from ecstasy to happily spent, and then pulls off, leaning up a little farther to plant his forehead against Clint's belly. Both his hands are on Clint's hips now, and Clint's hand is lazily and affectionately meandering through Bruce's hair, and Bruce achieved what he set out to do today and he's satisfied and happy and mellow. 

It isn't until after everything's tucked away, all Clint's equipment of every kind, and they're leaving, that Steve passes them on his way into the range, and they nod, just barely keeping from laughing in self-conscious conspiracy.


	3. Day 3, Prompt 12: First time they have sex

The comfortable hum of after dinner conversation turns into lazy making out on the couch. Bruce kisses Clint, straddling the other man, and all this is new enough still that Bruce is just relishing in the trust that represents, that he can be over and around Clint, in control of the situation, and Clint just sits, relaxed, unafraid. 

He kisses his way along Clint's stubbly jaw and down the corded muscles of his neck, noting all the old scars, all reminders that Clint is a fighter, isn't unfamiliar with danger or unable to defend himself. He's toughened, and that's just how Bruce likes him. Betty had been an angel, too good to be true, but somehow being with Clint feels more real, tangible, like something that might actually happen in a world as screwed up and dangerous as the one he's come to know. Like something he can hold on to. 

Bruce's fingers curl into the fabric of Clint's shirt as they kiss again, Clint's tongue pushing against his, and it's just what he wants, a little push now while he's relaxed enough to take it. It's exactly right, and he moans. 

"You like that?" Clint asks, pulling away only enough to speak against Bruce's lips, his hands on Bruce's neck and in his hair the only thing stopping Bruce from pushing for more. "What d'you want, Bruce?" he murmurs, and then lets their mouths reengage. 

Bruce presses into the renewed kiss, and he sinks against Clint, grinding just a touch. When he lifts his head to answer, he's breathing harder. He looks at Clint, eyes bright and hopeful. "I want you," he says. "You think we could try again?" 

"Yeah," says Clint, smiling. His fingers play with the hair behind Bruce's ears. "Yeah, an' I might have a couple ideas about that." He kisses Bruce all over again, warm and a bit sloppy, and then waits for Bruce to make the next move. 

Bruce is content to stay there kissing for another few minutes, but then he levers himself to his feet, holding out a hand to Clint. The archer takes it and they head to the bedroom. "Where do you want me?" Bruce asks as they come through the door, and punctuates the question with another kiss. 

Clint takes in the surroundings, considering the bed with its sturdy wood headboard, but then the soft, deep teal armchair catches his eye, and he smiles. "C'm'ere," he says to Bruce, pulling the curious doctor in that direction. He sits down on the chair, and pulls Bruce down on top of him again. 

Bruce has no idea what's going to happen (except in a very general sense), but he trusts Clint and he goes with it, staying calm and content. Granted, the last time they'd used the bed for much more than sleeping, it hadn't been the greatest experience, so it's possible it's a simple case of wanting to dissociate from that last try. Either way, Bruce is happy to continue kissing where they left off in the living room. 

Clint unbuttons Bruce's shirt expertly and methodically, pulling it back from his chest as he does, fingertips roving across the hairy skin. Once all the buttons are done, Clint pulls the two halves aside and leans in to lick at Bruce's nipples, and Bruce gasps and clings to Clint, breathing harder. 

Clint undoes Bruce's pants next, and their evening of lounging has been barefoot, so there are thankfully no shoes to make it any more awkward as Clint helps Bruce squirm out of his pants inch by inch without leaving his place straddled across Clint in the chair. The problem is the kind that amuses them both, geometry and forces, materials and coefficients of friction, experts as they are in the practical application of force, but they still get a bit tangled, and at one point it leaves Bruce half-sprawled across Clint's chest and both of them giggling helplessly. 

But they finally manage it, and then they're kissing again, and Bruce's erection is rubbing up against the soft cotton of Clint's tee shirt as he moves. Bruce pulls back from the kiss to breathe, and then, panting, says, "does this plan involve you getting undressed at any point?" 

"Soon," says Clint, and then he kisses Bruce's neck, and each of his nipples again, before taking hold of Bruce's wrists and moving each of his hands to one corner of the back of the chair. Then, improbably, he squirms out from under Bruce, up between Bruce's arms and out of the chair over the back. He leans in to kiss Bruce again, and then says, "I'll be right back. 'Kay?" 

Bruce nods in slightly bewildered interest. 

Clint sheds his shirt quickly as he goes to get what they'll need from the drawer by the bed, and comes back and puts things on the shelf next to the chair. Then he puts a hand gently on each of Bruce's shoulders, where he's still kneeling on the chair, and Clint says near his ear, "I'm right here, okay?" 

"Yeah," says Bruce, beginning to get the idea. He stays where he is, relaxing under the influence of Clint's hands, which are now running down his arms and back up, looping across his back, sliding down to his hips and back up his chest to settle there, wrapped around him, so that Bruce can now feel Clint's chest against his back as well. 

"I'm right here," Clint repeats, squeezing Bruce tight to him. "You got that?" 

"Yes. Thank you." Bruce laughs a bit with relief. "Clint. Thank you." He lifts one hand from the back of the chair to press over Clint's, on his chest. He turns his head until he can see Clint's face, chin resting on Bruce's shoulder so that they're now nose-to-nose. Bruce brushes his lips with an awkward kiss. "Thank you," he says again. "Can we start?" 

"Yeah," said Clint, smiling and giving Bruce another squeeze before pulling one hand away to grab the lube. He's braced with one knee on the seat of the chair between Bruce's legs, and still pressed up against Bruce's back as much as possible, kissing his neck and ear. It's not the easiest thing to do to find a good angle to work Bruce open, but Clint's flexible. He manages. 

It's startling, that first finger, even now that Bruce has felt it before, and with the sensation there's a bit of a jolt of memory, all the things he'd been feeling that last time, the pain, the worry. But that's not here and now. Now, it barely hurts at all, and here, they have more knowledge, a better plan. 

Hulk's awake again, but this time, he's just waiting; he knows this combination of feelings better now. When Banner felt them in the shooting place, he'd only gotten happier. 

Clint adds a second finger, breathing encouragement in Bruce's ear the whole time, keeping his other arm tight around Bruce, his hand over the doctor's heart. Bruce presses back into him, needing to feel that closeness, needing to remember the differences between this time and the last. 

Clint presses in and pulls out, stretching and stroking, sliding and seeking, until he finds a spot that makes Bruce tense and draw a deep, shuddering breath. He tightens his hold on Bruce again, keeping up his babble in the doctor's ear, stretching far enough to kiss Bruce's cheek. "You're all right, honey, aren't you? You can do this. You want more?" 

"Haah, _yes,_ " Bruce breathes, a soft enraptured smile breaking over his features. 

"Good, 'cause there's lots more where that came from," Clint says, continuing to talk without too much aim behind his words, focusing everything on making things good for Bruce, making this work. He pushes a third slick finger inside. 

There's no more bad-anxious, Hulk sees. There's little bits of pain and nervous, but mostly there's just anticipation. Hulk stands down, sinking back to near-rest, observing only out of curiosity. 

Bruce is now pushing back eagerly against Clint's fingers inside him, trying to find that feeling again. Clint's pretty sure he's ready. 

Clint pulls his fingers away, and he sinks back just a little, murmuring to Bruce, "Not going anywhere, all right? Staying right here." He kisses Bruce's back over and over, keeping their interaction going while his hands are busy freeing him from his pants and getting a condom properly situated. Then he has his arms back around Bruce, and he's situating Bruce a little bit, knees as far into the back corners of the chair as they can go, shoulders a bit farther forward, elbows on the back of the chair now. "I'm right here," he repeats, hands wrapping around again and finding places on Bruce's chest and belly. "You ready?" 

Bruce is ready. He nods, and a breathy, "Yes. I want you," is barely audible but Clint feels the answer shoot right through him, loud and clear. 

"Okay," Clint breathes in reply, one hand leaving Bruce's skin only long enough to guide himself in. The hand returns to Bruce's hip, steadying as Clint pushes in. "Oh, shit, Bruce, that's... God, better than I...." Clint catches his breath, refocuses, and pushes the rest of the way in. 

Bruce is on fire in every best way. Clint's inside him and around him and gasping in his ear. And it only makes him want more, desire like he's never felt before. 

"Bruce, hey," Clint is gasping, "you good? You want me to move?" 

" _Yes,_ " Bruce grinds out, around breaths big and loud enough almost to qualify as sobs. 

"Okay," Clint says, and he does, pulling out slowly, and then snapping in, harder than he means to, but everything is converging. 

Too soon. Clint bites his lip, getting a better hold on himself, but Bruce is saying, "Yes, yes, like that, _please, more,_ " so Clint begins again, slow and smooth on the way out, but putting definite force into the thrust back in. 

Bruce yells, tightening around him and lowering his forehead to the back of the chair, truly sobbing now, but between breaths he's all little "yes"es and "please"es and "more, Clint"s, so Clint keeps on, thrusting again and again into his Bruce, hearing the sounds of surprise and overwhelming pleasure, wishing it could last forever. But Clint is approaching the precipice, so he reaches around to Bruce's dick, brushing his fingers across it from base to tip, then gripping it and making the same journey. 

Bruce yells again, louder but also somehow more weakly, a sound of giving way, of surrender. His whole body spasms. Clint thrusts again, and once more, and he comes too, groaning into Bruce's neck, low and long. 

The sound of the both of them breathing is the loudest thing that's ever been or ever will be. It is everything. 

Bruce has sunk down against the back of the chair, limp and somewhat stunned, and Clint is wrapped tight around him, breathing against his ear and cheek, and they are exhausted and content to be there, with each other and part of each other in a way they never quite have been before. A portion of that is because of the act itself, but that's changed surprisingly little. It's everything that's happened along the way; it's the enormous trust they've proven in each other. It's what they've had to overcome to find themselves here, together, in each other's arms, sated and breathing into the silence.


	4. Day 4, Prompt 18: Medical play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucked up. This has lots of "medical" but not really any "play" or even "porn." It's kinda distressing. But I did say I was going to be playing fast and loose with the prompts.

Clint won't let anybody touch him. Nat gets the closest, gets a look at the tiny hooked weapons he was hit with, and she pulls one out, but after that he wards her away, rambling about twisted torture techniques and evil spy-women. She goes hard and quiet after that, but everyone knows she won't hold it against him. 

Hulk smashes the bad person's machines. They shot him with the same sprinkle of tiny annoying weapons but Hulk just brushes them away. It stings, but Hulk has had infinitely worse. 

The bad person's machines are all smashed, and she is being carried away by black-suited shield people. Hulk turns to assess his team. 

Clint is hurt. Hulk goes to see. 

Clint's arm is covered in the tiny, biting weapons. He looks hazy-eyed up at Hulk. That is wrong. Hulk's sharp little Hawkeye has sharp, bright eyes. 

"Hawkeye?" Hulk ventures, frowning and prodding Clint's uninjured arm. 

"Hey, Hulky!" Clint grins up at him. He pats the huge green hand that's held out towards him. 

"Hurt," Hulk accuses, frowning further. 

"They dosed him with something," Natasha tells Hulk. "He's scared, won't let anybody else get near him. But he needs to be in a medical facility. Hulk, can you take him back to the tower?" 

Hulk peers at her for a second before nodding ponderously. He lets Banner help him with the words this time. "We'll fix him," he says. 

Clint lets the Hulk pick him up, and the enormous hands are so careful when Clint is involved, when Bruce is awake somewhere in there. Clint curls into Hulk's enormous chest, and Hulk holds him securely while being careful of his injured arm. Then Hulk leaps, bounding towards Manhattan faster than most ground transport and many of the options by air. 

Bruce isn't worrying about structural damage to the city, for a change; all his thoughts are focused on Clint, what the weapons have done to him and how to help. So the two are in perfect accord, and when Hulk lands crouched on the Tower landing pad, he offers to give over, but Bruce thinks Clint is stable enough, and it'll be faster if Hulk gets them as far as the elevator. Jarvis opens the big glass doors, and Hulk strides through, setting Clint down carefully in the elevator. Clint tries to get up, but curses and sinks back down to the floor. Whatever he's been dosed with, the effects are intensifying. Hulk realizes it's bad, too, and he gives over suddenly, leaving a small, startled Bruce to catch himself against the doorframe and orient himself to his size and context. 

Once he's got his bearings, Bruce gets into the elevator, and Jarvis takes them to the infirmary floor without any instructions being necessary. 

"Bruce," Clint says warmly, suddenly discovering that his boyfriend is beside him. "You're here. They shot me with things, make me feel all fuzzy." 

"I know," Bruce answers, helping Clint to his feet. "I'm going to take care of you." 

"Good," the archer murmurs. "Don't like this." 

"I wouldn't either," Bruce says under his breath, thinking about loss of control and how much they both have to fear from it. He helps Clint onto an exam table and starts in with his work. 

"I'm going to give you a local anaesthetic, because I don't want to interfere any more than necessary with your neurochemistry right now, until we figure out what's going on," Bruce says, washing his hands and putting on gloves. "But I know those things are nasty." Bruce doesn't even want to think about the ranges of pain tolerance the Hulk has had to develop, and even he was bothered by these things. 

"Love it when you talk medical, Doc," Clint says, trying for a smirk, but it comes off more goofy. 

"Well, I don't really like it that much when I have to," Bruce replies, focusing on his work, spraying a topical anaesthetic up and down Clint's arm. 

"Aww, but Brucey, you're so smart. Should show it off more." 

Bruce chuckles. "Uh huh. Like Tony? I think he does that enough for the both of us." He picks up the tweezers and examines the tiny metal balls, which are covered in nasty hooks with disturbing little hollows at the end. There are maybe a couple dozen of them that have latched onto Clint's arm. 

"Naw, not like that... I mean... can you talk to me? Tell me what you're doin'. More words the better." 

Clint's really nervous. Bruce puts one gloved hand over Clint's free one where it's resting on his stomach, and squeezes the archer's fingers a little. "Okay," he agrees. "I think these things have been loaded with some kind of hallucinogen, probably classic, or it's possible that it's a deliriant, just based on your behavior. Either way, I'd like to get them out as soon as possible, since dosage can be really critical with hallucinogens, and I've got no idea how many of these things were intended to hit you or what effect she was going for." 

Bruce takes Clint's other hand in his own to hold the injured arm steady as he works. The hooks are tricky. They aren't barbed, thank fuck, and so with a little bit of care they just slide out, at least when only one of them has engaged with the skin. Some are trickier. 

Clint's hand twitches in Bruce's. "Talk to me?" 

"Right, sorry," Bruce answers, but there's nothing really intelligible going through his mind except for the dynamics of these little horrors. "These things are nasty. I can't see any reason why they're designed like this except to cause suffering. There are a lot more efficient ways to administer drugs with a weapon, and I should know, I've been subject to a lot of them." 

"Hey, Bruce, I don't wanna alarm you or anything, but..." Bruce's eyes snap up to Clint's face, but the expression he finds there is a little lopsided smile. "Your eyes are going kinda green right now, didja know?" 

Bruce turns his attention inward briefly, realizing how much he and the Other Guy are sharing in this moment, the resentment towards the weapons that had been pointed towards them, the anger and worry over Clint. Hulk is right there. But all his impetus to action, he's put into Bruce's hands for the time. 

"I didn't," Bruce answers. "But it's nothing to worry about." 

Clint grins at that proclamation. "Got that right," he says. "Smarty pants." 

Bruce smiles back, and then lowers his head again to the task; he's gotten maybe five of the dozens of little projectiles out. He tries to think of what to talk about during what looks to be a long, monotonous and yet nerve-wracking task. 

"So while I'm getting these out," he says finally, "how about if you tell me what you're experiencing in terms of neurological symptoms? It might help me rule some things out." 

"It's... nothing seems solid. Can't balance or aim. That's the worst part. Can't find the edges of anything." Clint's fingers twitch nervously again. Bruce tightens his grip on Clint's hand. 

"Okay, I'm going to go out on a limb and rule out LSD, that sounds like something with more of a depressive effect," Bruce thinks out loud as he removes another hook from Clint's skin. "Maybe a customized cocktail." He lifts the metal thing to look at it. "These must have been imparted with a lot of spin to attach the way they did, don't you think?" 

Clint peers at it as well, decades of experience with a wide variety of projectiles coming into play. "Yeah, must've been," he agrees. "That's gotta be one heck of a custom gun, to spit those things out in clusters. They get ahold of it?" 

It had taken Clint a bit too long to focus. Bruce frowns as he removes two more of the things, the last of the simple ones. "I'm pretty sure Hulk had a grudge against it, so you can imagine how that went," he says with both resignation and humor. 

Clint chuckles. "Yeah, guessing there's not much of it left." 

"Well, maybe Tony will be able to reconstruct it." Bruce moves on to the next sphere. "This might be painful, this one's in pretty deep, and there are hooks at more than one angle, so I'm going to see what I can do in terms of manipulating the skin around the hooks so you end up with minimal damage to the tissue. But you might want to brace yourself." Bruce takes his hand away from Clint's, because he needs both for this, pinching up the skin on Clint's arm before pulling the thing out with the tweezers. 

Clint hisses, but he doesn't voice any other objection. It's his other hand that gives away how lost he is, reaching for Bruce even though the doctor doesn't have a free hand to offer. All Bruce can really do is keep talking. 

"There are just a few more," he reassured. "Then I can clean and bandage your arm, and after that I'll take some blood to find out what these have been doing to you. The projectiles themselves will tell me a lot, assuming we can puzzle out the substance, but its effects on your chemistry might be easier to do something with faster." 

"Bruce..." There are lines of tension on Clint's face that Bruce doesn't like. "Tell me... tell me what's happening. Tell me what's real." 

Bruce continues the extractions, even more intent on getting it done. "Are you seeing things that you think aren't real?" he asks. 

"No... maybe. Bruce? Are you real?" 

Bruce very carefully finishes what he's doing and puts down his tools. His eyes flare green again. "Yes," he says forcefully, clasping a hand over Clint's shoulder. "Clint, I am absolutely real." 

Clint's head falls back, and he closes his eyes. "Good," he says. 

Bruce squeezes the tense shoulder under his hand. "I'm going to get this done, and then we'll get you back to normal," he says with that hint of a growl that means Hulk is promising too. 

"Yeah," says Clint. "I can't do this. Can't do this again." 

There's one more damn sphere. Bruce takes it out as carefully as he did the others, and then he cleans and bandages Clint's arm, clasping his hand when he can. He takes a blood sample and hands it off to Natasha, who's arrived in the interim, and tells her that Jarvis can walk her through the basic tox screens; Clint needs him here. 

"Clint," he says, climbing up on the table and lifting Clint's head into his lap, scrubbing fingers through the archer's short hair. "You've been here for me through so much. What do you need? Tell me." 

Clint raises his gaze to that of the worried physicist above him. He turns to put a hand on Bruce's knee, squeezing as if to make sure he's solid. "You're here," he says. 

"Yeah," Bruce agrees. He keeps combing his fingers across Clint's scalp. 

"Can you just... keep touching me?" 

"Not a problem," answers Bruce. 

After a while he slides down so that he's lying next to Clint and can press more of himself against more of Clint. 

After another while, Clint's feeling better; the drugs seem to be burning off. And they come out of the exam room to see that at some point, Natasha had retrieved a sock and placed it on the doorknob.


	5. Day 5, Prompt 1: Anal sex

Clint climbs up to sit astride Bruce's back where he's lying on his stomach on the bed, and he pours the oil onto his fingers, apricot kernel with just a tiny bit of geranium oil. It's light and sweet and it makes Clint wonder how he ever came to be here, Clint Barton, a poor ratty kid from the ass end of nowhere with barely any education and one marketable skill, his aim, which only shady people were interested in paying him for. 

But one gig had led to another, and now he's an Avenger, with a scary-smart boyfriend with three-point-five doctorates and an apartment looking out over Manhattan and it's all way too good to be true. 

Bruce is amazing, warm and comfortable and wonderfully goofy when he's relaxed, fearsome and burning when he's not. Clint likes both, but knows well enough that the exciting parts of life aren't meant to be the whole thing. Running away to join the circus is one way to find that out real early. 

So Clint takes what he can get of rich and clean and boring and _normal,_ and he rubs his boyfriend's back, feeling the tension in his neck that comes with being a bookworm, in his shoulders from trying to keep small and out of the way, and down the sides of his spine to in between his shoulderblades from hunching over a microscope as much as he does. Clint does his best to smooth that tension away, to bring that contented smile to Bruce's face, the one that makes even this hardened assassin melt, because of its rarity. Because everyone who knows Bruce, knows calm Bruce, but only one or two have seen him truly happy, truly _burdenless._

Clint works the oil into the muscles of Bruce's arms and hands, those careful hands he knows, and Bruce groans when Clint's grip bites into the big muscle between thumb and forefinger, and more tension leaches out of the body under him. 

Bruce is beautiful like this, a force of nature tamed, like the still water behind a dam, all the more wide and placid for how much withheld force it contains. 

Clint moves on to his ass and legs, but none of the problem areas are there and the guy is nearly a puddle, so after a quick pass he moves back up, lower back, neck and head, then a kiss on the cheek as Clint pauses to look at the placid face he's rubbed into existence. "You ready?" he asks. 

Bruce smiles a bit wider, but doesn't otherwise move, and Clint knows that's all the answer he needs. He wipes his hands and gets out a second bottle, water-based this time, and he opens Bruce up with steady, practiced motions. 

The profound relaxation Bruce is expressing only deepens, and Clint admires his handiwork with pride. He'd done this. He'd helped make this possible. And there's no better sight in all the world. 

It only takes a moment for Clint to rub himself to hardness and put on a condom, and then he's positioning himself carefully over Bruce, sliding into the thoroughly prepared passage, smooth and slow. Bruce gives a long, low hum of appreciation, and shifts just slightly under the archer, delicious ripples across still water. 

Clint's kissing Bruce's back from his neck down between his shoulderblades, and his arms bracket Bruce's chest, surrounding and supporting. His hips work slowly, sliding out, in again, rolling seamlessly, and back, unbroken waves of motion with no beginning or end. Even with all the attention required to maintain that smooth rhythm, it's hypnotic even for Clint, and the two of them are drifting in a continuous, unbroken swell of pleasure. 

Clint listens to Bruce's breathing accelerate steadily, watches as the tiny smile at the corner of his mouth falls away to an open, wondering expression. Then Clint lays his forehead against Bruce's back and focuses on the steady rhythm, accelerating just slightly, fighting to keep smooth, because that face of Bruce's makes him want so much more, to speed things up and drive the pleasure from them both. 

Instead he lets his fingers wander, hands finding their way under Bruce's shoulders and chest, until he's holding Bruce and pressing wet kisses to his neck, teeth pressing into skin but not pinching, and when Bruce whimpers just slightly with more urgent need, Clint does change the rhythm, strokes harder, deeper, more focused. 

Their breathing is rough and quick, now, and the places where their skin is pressed together feel hot and alive, nearly electric. The potential they've been slowly and steadily building is becoming enormous. 

Clint's hands move under Bruce again, brushing and then squeezing a nipple, which makes Bruce writhe and groan. Clint is about to come undone, murmuring words he can't get hold of as they go past, swears and endearments. His hand makes its way lower, slipping between Bruce's belly and the solid shape of his erection where it presses against the sheets, and Bruce gasps, then sobs. Clint takes him in hand and then lets himself go, thrusting hard and quick, squeezing in time with that new pace. 

Bruce voices a choked cry, and every muscle in him shudders under Clint, flexing and squeezing, and white bursts and gushes and floods Clint's perceptions; pleasure is everywhere, everything, and with a final groan of release, Clint grinds to a halt, breathing hard against Bruce's neck. 

Bruce's stillness now is like a puddle after rain, a charmed moment where ripples chase each other across the surface but the quiet is still profound, because of what came before. Where every tiny thing seems beautiful and yet inconsequential. 

Clint presses his face into the space between Bruce's shoulders, and drinks that in, smiling lazily for a moment, before rousing himself enough to pull out and lower himself to Bruce's side. 

At moments like this, the things Clint has seem small enough to believe, but still infinitely valuable.


	6. Day 6, Prompt 23: Rimming

"No, no, you are _not_ going to stick your tongue in my...." 

"Okay, hey, that's fine, Bruce, it was just a question." 

"I wasn't finished. You're not going to stick your tongue in my ass without protection." 

"Really? So..." 

"There's plastic wrap in the kitchen, why don't you go get some?" Bruce says like it's an everyday necessity in the bedroom. Which, Clint supposes, it could be. 

"So that's really not a 'no' at all," Clint says, giving his boyfriend a smirk as he gets up. 

"Well, as I remember it, your exact words were 'can I taste you,' so I'm calling a pretty solid 'no' in response to that exact question." 

Clint chuckles. "'Course you win on a technicality. Okay, I'm going, I'll be right back." 

Bruce falls back into Child Pose, breathing and waiting for Clint, a smile playing across his face where it rests near his knees. He's intrigued at the prospect, but he knows too much about infection and hygiene to feel comfortable with any so permeable part of Clint finding its way inside him unprotected. He's just glad to have someone who checks in about that kind of thing first, and who prioritizes what makes Bruce comfortable with things. 

Clint comes back in and just stands in the doorway for a moment, looking at Bruce. Bruce can tell because he can hear plasticky rustling. This is going to be slightly awkward, probably, but they haven't really let that stop them so far. 

"Well, are you having second thoughts?" Bruce teases, voice slightly muffled by his position. 

"Nope," Clint says, approaching the bed again. "Just appreciating the view. You?" He lays the plastic down on the sheets and squeezes Bruce's ass appreciatively. 

Bruce raises his head slightly as he speaks this time. "I have to admit, I'm curious," he says. The heat of Clint's hands on his back and hips is bringing him back into the flow of the moment, to where they had been before Clint's question had sort of derailed them. 

There's silence for a moment, and then Clint starts to snicker. "Sorry, I'm just... I'm sitting here with this piece of _plastic wrap,_ and fuck, did I really say what I remember saying? Because I'm thinking that was probably not the best way to ask...." 

"No, it was... flattering," Bruce says, not fighting the grin that's spreading across his face. "Gross, but flattering." 

Clint has now pretty much collapsed across Bruce's back in a fit of badly suppressed laughter, and Bruce is definitely enjoying the humor of the situation too. Clint shakes his head, rubbing his nose across one of Bruce's shoulderblades. "Is the mood totally dead?" he asks. 

"No," Bruce says, his smile softening, but remaining in place. "When you laugh? I want you more than ever." 

The earnestness of that brings Clint back to a comfortably sober state, and he goes from laughing against Bruce's back to kissing it, and his thumbs are rubbing at Bruce's shoulders, and finally he pulls back, reaching for the lube and saying, "Well, then, let's see if we can figure this out...." 

Bruce is expecting it to be more or less like the sensation of fingers, but as soon as the softer, more flexible appendage begins to push at his anus, he moans at how hot it is, how it molds to the shape of his muscle, how there's nothing rough or structured about it, so that it becomes simply _soft heat everywhere,_ and it's incredible. Bruce's head sinks back towards the bed again. His attention narrows to that one sensation, Clint's mouth soft and hot on his ass. 

Then he begins to push in, and that's novel as well, the way it's tapered and softly intrusive but _thick,_ and this is also where the plastic wrap comes into play, folding and tensing against Bruce's skin, but Clint applied plenty of lube and it's just a different slide than fingers or a condom, even slicker maybe, and none of this is being thought consciously in real time because everything about it is overloading Bruce's senses, making his eyes widen and brow crinkle with the strange intensity of it. 

It's odd also because Clint's not talking, not asking how it is or watching Bruce's face for the signs, but instead he's caught one of Bruce's hands in his and he's just monitoring the tension by Bruce's grip, which is passionately tight but still mindful, and loosening as Bruce gets comfortable with the feeling of that tongue, so soft and so deft and responsive, flicking and pushing and licking into him deeper and deeper. 

It's decadent in a way that Bruce has never experienced, and never imagined he would, the tactile equivalent of one of Tony's gold flake dusted desserts or thousand-dollar bottles of champagne. It's both amazingly intense and incredibly gentle, and Bruce just lies there, curled on the bed, limp and panting and caught up in it. 

Clint's tongue circles closer to his prostate so gradually that it's almost a seamless transition, from wanting more to being saturated with pleasure. But once the soft muscle is playing against the spot in earnest, Bruce has started to come undone, grasping Clint's hand harder again, almost kneading it in his yearning to be touching his lover, to be showing his appreciation in a physical way that doesn't involve _this stopping._ Ever, preferably. 

And it does go on for what, to Bruce's pleasure-drunk mind, feels like days, and the hand of Clint's that he's not clinging to begins to wander. Across the skin of his ass and down to cup his balls, where they hang between Bruce's feet, and then running up his cock; Clint's hand is still wet with lube, and the touch is velvety, perfectly balanced with the tongue inside him. He's surrounded, consumed. 

Bruce is flying, falling, trying to hold on to the sensations even as he's pulsing around Clint's tongue and emptying himself into Clint's hand; keening as the tongue continues to press and massage, driving the last of the pleasure before it, and then, after one last press inwards, withdraws. 

Bruce still has Clint's hand in his, and he strokes it as he comes down, an inarticulate thanks, a praise, almost worship. He can feel the signs of Clint's movement from behind him to at his side, and then the archer curls around him, hastily cleaned hand settling on his neck. "You liked that, huh?" he says, voice rough. 

Bruce is still too lost to answer, but he turns his head to watch Clint, eyes shining. 

The corner of Clint's mouth quirks. "God, Bruce, you're really gone, arent'cha? Want me to finish myself off?" 

Bruce answers with the ghost of a smile and a deliberate drop of his eyelids before opening them again, as much of a nod as he'll give, and then his eyes wander down to Clint's erection. Clint grins. "I'll take that as a yes," he says, and stretches out on the bed, shuffling upwards a bit to give Bruce a better view. 

Bruce hums in appreciation, and he stretches out his hand to graze over Clint's chest before settling on his stomach, keeping their connection but leaving both of Clint's hands free. 

Clint releases a satisfied sigh, one hand brushing Bruce's on his stomach before reaching lower, stroking himself lazily, then closing his eyes as he tightens his grip and comes with a groan. White spills over his hands and Bruce's where it still rests on his stomach. 

Bruce smiles, rubbing his fingers against Clint's skin and smearing the come across it, enjoying every sensation. He catches Clint's eyes and the satisfaction and muted laughter in them. He wonders when it was, exactly, that his life had become perfect.


	7. Day 7, Prompt 3: Body fluids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the angsty one.
> 
> May or may not be influenced by something Fraction said about Clint in the fanmail section of Sex Criminals #4. I did have the idea before I saw the quote, but it's gotten shuffled around since then.

Phil Coulson is alive. 

Phil Coulson is alive, and eight months of Clint's life have been based on a lie. Clint doesn't even know how to begin processing it, so he goes down to the range. Lets the rhythmic thud of the arrows finding their marks drown out everything. 

Except. 

"Tell me what you're thinking," Bruce says. 

"I don't know," Clint answers. "I don't know what to think." 

"Okay," says Bruce. He sets up a lane, gets out his own bow, stands facing Clint as he usually would, right-hand draw opposite left-hand draw. 

Clint ignores him. 

Bruce is placid, aim as good as ever, but not sunk down into the motions the way he's learned to be. Not focused on tension and force and leverage, on being the weapon, on Hulk. Bruce is focused on Clint. 

What they have is good. Great. Phenomenal. There is nothing Clint would not do to make Bruce happy. 

"I slept with him once," Clint says, between one shot and the next. There's silence after that, for a while. Bruce is waiting for more. Clint doesn't know what else to say. 

Eventually Bruce does speak. "If it wasn't important to you, you would have said by now. So, you care about him. Must be a shock to find out that he's alive." 

Clint's mouth twists, almost a tic, and he keeps shooting. 

"You care about him a lot." Bruce has let his bow go slack, looking more closely at Clint. 

Clint sighs, and lowers his bow but leaves the arrow nocked. "He was my handler," he says, shrugging. "Man who told me who to shoot. Had to trust him." He draws again, and continues. 

"Okay," Bruce says. "Important working relationship, I've got how that fits in, but... why exactly did you feel the need to tell me about the sex, unless there was more to it than that? Because I really could have stood not to know that about someone we could potentially be working with." 

Clint doesn't answer right away, instead continuing with his archery. Bruce breathes, and attempts to get back into the flow of practice himself. But he hasn't managed to loose a single shot by the time Clint looks back at him with worry-narrowed eyes. 

"It meant something," Clint mumbles. "Least, to me it did. Not sure about him." 

"Okay," Bruce says. "Tell me." 

"He was - he _was_ \- home." Clint shoots again, then fights himself, puts down his bow as well, looking at Bruce at last. "But you've been that to me for a while now." 

"Only because he wasn't here?" Bruce hears the rumble begin in his voice, and he stops himself, and breathes, and begins the meticulous process of putting his bow away. 

"When I heard...." Clint cringes, and shakes his head. "When they _told_ me he was dead, I swore I'd never let a chance like that pass me by again." 

"You love him," is Bruce's too-quiet conclusion. 

"I did. Bruce...." Clint's face is tight, but he's not avoiding Bruce's eyes anymore. "I'm only even mostly okay because of you. I'm not going anywhere. Me and him, we missed our chance. I'm yours. I love _you_." But he turns away again as he puts down his bow, ready to be out of here now that here isn't a place he can hide from what's going on. "It's just... it's gonna be a little rough." 

"Okay," says Bruce. "We'll get through it." But Clint isn't sure which one of them he's trying to convince. 

"Yeah," agrees Clint. He puts away his bow. He isn't exactly sure where he's gonna head. There's his floor, of course, but none of his stuff is even there anymore. The roof or terraces, but it's cold as fuck right now and Clint isn't actually feeling like torturing himself that much on top of everything else. There's the common floor, which is currently host to an impromptu welcome back party that - no. And there's home. Bruce's place. 

Messed up as he is, Clint knows there's nowhere he'd rather go. 

He slows down and waits for Bruce to catch up, now that he's admitted to himself where he's going. But he doesn't touch Bruce. He slumps against the side of the elevator, wrapping his arms around himself. 

"You never knew 'im, I guess. Nat was your SHIELD liaison?" 

"Yeah," Bruce answers. "She brought me in, showed me where I'd be working on the 'carrier. I was introduced to Fury and a few other agents but never Coulson. Tony pointed him out to me, though, when he passed by the lab." 

Clint smiles darkly. "Least I'm not keeping you from a party you really need to be at, then." 

Bruce shakes his head. "Parties really aren't my thing, anyway." 

Clint's smile softens just a tiny bit. 

The doors open on Bruce's level. "Coming in?" the doctor asks. He walks out of the elevator with his usual almost-shuffling stride. Clint follows, because what else is he going to do? 

Bruce makes his way into the kitchen, fills the kettle and sets it to heating, gets out mugs and drink fixings, putting hot cocoa powder into Clint's mug and matcha powder into his own. He prepares both with an equal amount of care and ritual, pouring and stirring in calm, methodical silence. He sets the cocoa in front of Clint, where he's settled at the bar out of habit, to watch Bruce. Bruce takes his place beside Clint, sipping his tea. 

Clint prods his mug of cocoa. Bruce waits. 

Clint picks up the mug and looks at it. Bruce waits. 

Clint sips. It's exactly how he usually likes it. It's too sweet. He puts it down again. 

"Tell me what you're thinking," Bruce says again. 

"Wish I was sure," Clint answers. "Thought I was. But I'm not." 

"You want to know what would have happened?" 

He shakes his head. "It's... we worked together, for a long time. He was the first person who ever...." Clint droops over his mug of cocoa. "It's too much to just forget." 

Bruce nods in understanding. "Some things you can't. I don't know if I could ever work with Betty again. There's a lot of history." 

Clint frowns at Bruce. "I don't..." Clint draws a slightly unsteady breath. "Don't get why you're not angry." 

"I am angry," Bruce says fiercely, coming to stand by Clint's seat and clasping a hand over his shoulder. "Angry at Fury, at Coulson, at Tony for springing him on you like this. Angry at the world for heaping hurt on the same people over and over again. And honestly? I'm angry at you, too. I want you to be sure. Because I'm sure. I love you. You're mine." 

Clint doesn't look at Bruce; his eyes are fixed on his cocoa again. 

Bruce's hand tightens on Clint's shoulder again. "Clint. We are not giving you up without a fight. Do you understand how much we love you?" 

When Clint looks up curiously, he sees green in Bruce's eyes. 

It's like the eye contact flips a switch, like Bruce sees something in Clint's face that makes him surge forward and press his lips against Clint's. It's hungry and forceful in a way Bruce hasn't let himself be, not ever. 

Clint doesn't know why he deserves this, but if Bruce wants him like this, if Bruce needs him, he's here. He kisses back eagerly. 

They pull apart, panting, and Bruce asks, "Can I fuck you?" 

For a second, Clint has trouble wrapping his head around the question. But he answers, "Yeah," and a moment later asks, "Why now?" 

"We might be feeling... a little bit possessive right now," Bruce admits. He kisses Clint again with that new level of force and desire. "And the Other Guy has a theory." 

A crooked smile breaks through Clint's cloud of solemn reserve. "Really? I'm intrigued. What is it?" 

"That if we can make you feel as good as you make us feel," Bruce says, eyes drilling into Clint's, "then you couldn't possibly leave us." 

A wave of awe rushes through Clint, bittersweet and breathless. "I'm not missing anything with this," Clint promises, but he's still thrilled at the prospect of this; something new, something powerful, to maybe distract him from the chaos of what he's feeling. He curls his fingers into Bruce's hair, kissing him again, and it's hot and rich and a little bit dirty, with a tiny flame of shame burning low in Clint's belly. 

Bruce is definitely uncharacteristically possessive, manhandling Clint into the bedroom and down onto the bed, almost tearing off his clothes, kissing him hard. Those green flickers keep appearing in his eyes, but the tension in him now is all directed outwards - Bruce and Hulk agree about this. No matter the color, those eyes are willing him to know that he is theirs, that they love him. 

It's too much to face right now, so Clint turns over, pressing his face and chest into the pillows and spreading his knees on the sheets. This is probably for the best, anyway. It's been a while. 

Bruce's hands are all over him, running along his back, stomach and thighs, kneading his ass, gripping his balls (carefully, always carefully; Clint is not afraid of Bruce and never will be), and finally Bruce's fingers are slick and pressing into his hole. 

It's more intense with Bruce than it's ever been before; Clint doesn't trust easily, and the one or two people he'd let do this in the past, it had been a stretch, it had taken some convincing. But Bruce had asked, and he'd agreed, didn't need to think about it. Clint is relaxing under the onslaught of careful but possessive touches, giving easily to the fingers in his ass. He knows Bruce loves him. 

And those fingers find their place, mapping their target and seeing what reactions different motions get, thorough, like a scientist would be. A long brush of friction has him crying out, pleading Bruce for more, panting hard as the fingers retreat. 

There's the sound of a condom being torn open, Bruce's deliberate breaths as he puts it on himself, and Clint wants to watch that sometime, Bruce touching himself with practical motions but too far gone to be businesslike; he can almost see it now, with his face pressed into the pillows. 

Then Bruce pushes in, heavy and thick but it's the very opposite of a problem; he wants to feel this, wants to feel like he's being torn open, wants to feel the whole length and breadth of Bruce's arousal inside him and hear the way Bruce's moan of shocked pleasure is nearly a growl. 

Bruce begins to move, bearing down into him, and Clint has never felt this opened up; he feels raw with pleasure as Bruce slides in and out, and Clint loosens further, welcoming it, pushing back against it, wanting even more. 

"Yes," he hisses. "Come on, more, _please._ " Muttered words and whimpers and pleas in a quiet but intense stream. Bruce obliges by increasing the pace and force of his thrusts, slowly and steadily as he can. 

Clint's coming all undone; he's open under Bruce, every piece of him laid bare, and his mouth goes incoherent as the world narrows to the feel of one thrust after another and the surrender to that urgent need. There are gasps and sobs now, the sheer force of impact between the two of them drawing the noises out; Bruce's hands are tight on his hips and they're pulling him in with every sudden thrust, angling him for perfect, shocking strikes against that critical point. Clint can feel his limit approaching and Bruce must see it too because he moves one hand to Clint's dick, first squeezing the base then stroking up to the head and brushing against it with an almost teasing lightness, but it more than does the job, and Clint yells, letting go, gushing over the sheets, every cell flush with the intensity of the moment. 

The first thing Clint becomes aware of after that is that his sobbing hasn't stopped. 

Bruce is shivering with his own release, but the next moment he's gasping and melting down against Clint, and then he's touching the archer gently, making noises of concern. He pulls out, sinks down next to Clint, touching his face which is wet with tears. 

"It's all right," Bruce says, pulling Clint into his arms. "It's okay." He kisses away the tears. 

"Sorry," Clint says when he can get breath to speak. "'M sorry. I missed him _so much._ " 

Bruce's hands tighten where they rest on Clint's body, but his voice is gentle as ever. "It's okay. I get it. We're gonna be all right." 

Clint doesn't know that. He wishes he knew. But he doesn't. 

He holds tight to Bruce, and he wonders what he's gonna do.


	8. Day 8, Prompt 29: Threesome/group sex

"Agent Barton," Coulson says. "It appears we have some things to discuss." 

Clint has been hiding on Bruce's floor. 

Well, not so much 'hiding' as 'working things out,' but it must have seemed a heck of a lot like hiding to Coulson, the newly reinstated SHIELD liaison to the Avengers, who has been checking in with everyone about their statuses and how they'd been working together so far. And for two days, Clint has yet to set a toe in the common areas, even the shooting range. 

After he and Bruce have worked some things out, they let Jarvis know that Coulson is now welcome to come and talk to them. 

Clint smiles a bit as he opens the door. He's almost managing to look relaxed, but underneath that, he's still a bit on edge. He knows Phil will be able to tell. 

"It's good to see you, Sir," he tells his old boss. "Come in." He's laying down the fact that this is his home. He goes and sits next to Bruce on the couch, and gestures Coulson to a chair. He might have preferred a more neutral arrangement, except he knows Bruce does better when he's able to touch Clint if he needs to. 

"Dr. Banner," Coulson says, nodding at Bruce as he sits down. "We've already gone over everything I wanted to discuss with you, but you're welcome to sit in on Barton's briefing." 

Bruce returns his nod with a little twist of a smile. Their meeting had involved a brief, thinly veiled shovel talk from Coulson, and the demurral that Bruce's ability to work with Coulson would depend mostly on how things went when he met with Clint. In short, it had run to the defensive. "I think there are some things we all need to discuss," Bruce replies. 

"Okay," Coulson acknowledges, the growing curiosity that he must be feeling showing not at all through his businesslike exterior. "Barton, tell me what your concerns are." 

Clint blows out a long breath, cheeks puffing out with it. He considers the table between them for a moment, then looks up at Coulson, deciding to take the shot. "Sir - Phil - I'm not sure how good an idea it is for us to work together, because of... things. Things that happened, and maybe I kind of wanted them to happen again, but then some SOB told me you were dead, and I'd done a pretty good job of moving on until you showed up out of the blue the other day." 

A profound silence falls. Not even the power of Coulson-brand unflappability can withstand it. 

"I see," Coulson says at last. "In that case, I'll request a different assignment. I wouldn't want my presence to disrupt a team that seems to be working very well without me." He starts to stand. 

"Wait," Bruce says. 

Phil sits. 

"He really does want you here," Bruce continues. 

Coulson looks long and hard at the physicist, frowning. "That may not be the most pertinent factor," he finally replies. 

"Or it might be," Bruce counters. "Because when Clint is unhappy? The Hulk is unhappy. And it's a little bit late to keep your survival under wraps." 

Phil puts a hand to his forehead. He sighs almost imperceptibly. Then he looks up again at the two of them. "If that's the case," he says, "I'm still not really seeing any more sustainable options here." 

"There are two that I'd just like to put out there," Bruce says, calm and even as ever. "And whether either of them is valid really depends on you, so... you open to hearing them?" 

Phil pushes his lips together, considering, then he nods fractionally. "Go ahead." He looks worried. Well, to most people, he wouldn't. But he looks the same as he does when he's negotiating a FUBAR hostage situation. 

"Think you could stand down a bit, Sir," Clint says. "He's playing up the Hulk danger some to get you to listen. But we'd all roll on just fine if you end up sticking with Option 3." His eyes travel between the other two men, catching their eyes with reassuring half-smiles, and patting Bruce's knee. "Big Green's a great guy, if you know the tricks to working with 'im." 

Bruce smiles, a thanks for the vote of confidence and for the reminder that no matter what happens, they're in this together. 

Phil takes a breath, and sinks just a little deeper into his chair, nodding. "All right," he asks Bruce, "what are your suggestions?" 

"Well, first, you could tell Clint that you have no interest in him that way, and the two of you could try to rebuild your working relationship on a clean footing. But it would have to be the truth." 

Coulson closes his eyes momentarily. He glances at Clint for the barest moment, then at Bruce, gauging how he might react to this answer. "I'm afraid that's not an option," he says then, in the flattest tone possible. 

Bruce just nods like he expected that. "Then the other suggestion I have is that we work out a way to get everything we want." 

Phil blinks, which is more of a startled reaction than Clint has ever seen from him when nothing is on fire. Clint smirks at him. 

"You really think the Hulk will react better to that?" he asks at last. 

Bruce shrugs. "You know, the thing about the Other Guy is that he doesn't really get to have his own life. He already has to share everything with me. I'm not going to say it won't be a problem at all, but I really think it's worth a try. If it's something you'd be up for." 

Coulson looks into the middle distance for several seconds with slightly narrowed eyes. Then those eyes turn on Clint, a very slight wistfulness creeping into his habitually businesslike expression. They take in the way his archer is oriented to Bruce now, the way the scientist looks much less worn and gaunt than he had on the Helicarrier or in all the surveillance photos. The way they're happy, comfortable in each other's presence. 

He shakes his head. "I'd be intruding," he says. "I can see that. And the last thing I want to do is endanger the team dynamic. That's not why I'm here." 

Bruce and Clint look at each other. 

"I'll be honest with you," Bruce says, looking back at Phil. "You're intruding just by existing. That problem isn't going to go away just because you do. So we're asking you to help us solve it." 

Coulson frowns, jaw set in determination. "So what you're suggesting is... two separate relationships?" 

"I'm more inclined to think that just one sort of bigger one would work better," Bruce replies. "The Hulk already gets the 'team' concept pretty well; he's not so clear on 'romance'." 

Coulson looks at Banner, assessing contemplatively. "Dr. Banner, that's an interesting offer, but a little bit presumptuous for someone you only met yesterday, don't you think?" 

Bruce's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Maybe. But then I kind of think I already know everything I really need to know about you." He steals a glance at Clint. 

Clint's eyes are eloquent, full of 'you don't have to do this' and 'holy cow is this really happening' and 'thank you,' and Bruce has to lean in to kiss him; he does it the way he would if they were alone, uncaring that they have an audience, slow and passionate and deep. 

It's a test. 

Phil watches, unflinching as always. 

The couple separates, and they both turn eyes to watch Phil in turn. Phil's frowning slightly. 

Clint tilts his head and his mouth draws together and he asks, "Too weird for you, Sir?" 

"Clint," Phil says, slightly exasperated. "I deal with possible superhuman assets and 0-8-4's for a living. I got stabbed through the chest with a magic alien scepter and at this point I'm pretty sure they used experimental technology to bring me back. If I ever had a context for the phrase 'too weird,' it's long gone." 

"Good," says Bruce. "So, are you in?" 

Phil looks at them. Clint's got that familiar irreverent look in his eyes, pain half-covered by humor, wondering if he's just gotten Phil back only to never see him again. Bruce looks... determined. Curious. But also protective. Both gentle and unstoppable, the way he would have to be. 

He'd made a good point; if Clint trusts someone, that's just about all you need to know. Clint has a finely tuned gut, a way of knowing which way to jump, and Phil had trusted him to make the call when it came to Natasha. This call, as impossible as it seems, is even a little harder to swallow; but if Clint tells him it's the call to make, Phil is willing to bet it has a decent chance of working. 

And Phil is sick of pretending he isn't in love with Clint. 

"Yes, I'd like to... give this a chance," he tells them. 

Clint lets out a breath, and he stands and almost falls towards Phil, and Phil comes up to meet him. Clint's got his arms around him, hands on him, making sure he's real. 

"Missed you so much, Phil," he says, voice rough with grief and affection. And this is so much like Clint, to hold everything back until he's got all the factors and heard the go-ahead. "Never thought I'd see you again and it almost killed me. Never got a chance to tell you...." They're both clinging to each other now, and Clint's head is bowed, face resting against Phil's shoulder. "I love you." 

Phil is a bit overwhelmed by the reaction, and for a moment all he can do is hold Clint tighter, reassuring them both that he's alive. But then he looks down at Bruce, still in his place on the sofa. 

The doctor has this little smile on his face, this painful thing, eyes sparkling to see Clint getting what he'd so desperately needed, wariness, just a little fear. The admission that this is necessary, that it's worthwhile, no matter what. Phil nods acknowledgement before answering Clint. 

"I love you too, Clint," he whispers, a hand on the archer's neck. "I'm so sorry. They told me no one knew I'd survived while I was recovering from the surgeries, but by the time I was discharged, you were already with Bruce. I thought it was better... to leave things as they were." 

"You're an idiot," Clint murmurs. 

"Speak for yourself," says Phil. 

There's a contented silence as they remember each other, Coulson's rock-steady composure, Clint's opportunistic humor, the way they fit together like two parts in a dependable, well-oiled machine. 

Their cheeks are resting against each other now, and it's familiar yet alien; they're finally complete, but there's still something missing. 

Phil sees Bruce stand and approach, then, and they watch each other. The tension of their defensive dance is still present, but it's changed, and Phil waits placidly as Bruce approaches, watching to see what he'll do. 

Bruce puts a hand on Clint's shoulder, and Clint shivers, pressing back into the doctor's touch as much as he can without letting go of Phil. Phil watches in fascination; he worked with Clint for years, but he hasn't gotten the chance to know him the same way Bruce has these past few months. He's going to learn what he can. 

Bruce presses himself up against Clint's back, and Clint chuckles, shifting a little between the two of them. "Ready to get right down to it, huh, Doc? Won't find any objections here." 

"You've waited long enough, and I want to be a part of this. And I figure if anyone's going to have a problem with this, we should find out sooner, rather than later," Bruce says, kissing his neck softly, beginning slow. His hand brushes down Clint's arm until he encounters Phil's hand resting there. 

It's jarring, there's no denying that. His hand flutters over Phil's, hesitant, exploratory. But then Phil's fingers move, seeking, interlacing with his and settling them into place, so that both their hands together rest across Clint's arm. 

Bruce's eyes close and his emotions settle, and he knows that he is exactly where he's supposed to be. 

He kisses Clint's neck again, and he slides his other hand around Clint, between the other two, holding Clint close. "Kiss each other," he says. 

Clint glances around, meeting Bruce's eyes, and Bruce nods, and he presses his lips to Clint's shoulder, through the t-shirt he's wearing. Clint turns back to Phil, who's still wrapped tight in his arms, a tiny, hopeful smile on his face and eyes full of soft humor. 

Clint brings his face closer to Phil's, kissing his cheeks, marveling at the miracle that is his restored life. He kisses Phil with Bruce's solid weight at his back, and it's more honest than he remembers, not the urgent thing that was two agents working out their frustrations when no other way presented itself. It's stronger, acknowledged affection running under lust, the currents deeper, more subtle, more irresistible. 

Bruce watches with a tangled mix of feelings, joy and sadness and arousal and jealousy and comfort. Hulk watches as well, tugging at the knot of emotions, confused. He picks out jealousy, and pulls. 

Bruce breathes, deep and even, and he nibbles at Clint's neck, and he slides the hand not occupied by Phil's under the hem of Clint's shirt, running it up his abs, clawing a little at the skin over his ribs. Clint gasps into the kiss, pushing back against Bruce. 

Phil shifts his hand out from under Bruce's on Clint's arm, and pulls back from the kiss. He catches Bruce's eye. Then he returns to Clint for one more quick kiss. "Turn around," he tells the archer with a quirk of a smile. "Give him some attention. I've got a suit I need to get out of before anything worse happens to it." And he pulls away, not far, but out of reach. 

Clint obeys, twisting in Bruce's arms, looking into the doctor's eyes with love and awe, examining his face and stance and finding tension. 

"I love you," he tells Bruce, and he starts kissing away the strain, forehead, jaw and neck, and then he kisses Bruce's lips while he starts on Bruce's shirt buttons. 

Phil has folded his suit jacket over a chair, along with his tie, and his pants and shoes are on their way to joining them. He's laying himself bare first, like a sacrifice, like an offering for the other two to consume. And as if there's nothing unusual about this situation, he calls over to them, "Any thoughts on venue? I'd understand if you don't want me in your bed just yet." 

And that defuses Bruce the rest of the way, causing him to slump into Clint with a breath of laughter. Clint likes to draw the tension out of Bruce and play with it, but Phil is efficient, cutting its strings when it seems like it's getting to be too much. Clint watches, sees Bruce getting more comfortable with this whole idea, and he's glad for everything that Phil is. 

"Bed's probably the best place for me," Bruce answers. "I'm most comfortable there." 

So they make their way in that direction, Bruce's shirt abandoned somewhere in the kitchen where Clint decided he needed to stop and tease at his nipples, and Phil's in the hallway, coinciding with a spot where Clint pushed him up against the wall, examined his scar and then kissed him thoroughly, pushing a knee between his legs. Once in the bedroom, they catch each other's eye and gang up on Clint, finally getting his tee off, then lavishing him with kisses, Phil down his chest and Bruce along the beautiful muscles of his back. Their fingers brush each other as they trace paths along his sides. Clint praises them both volubly, especially when Phil efficiently undoes Clint's jeans and all four hands work them off him, crossing over so that Bruce's familiar hands are freeing his cock even as Phil's are skimming over and uncovering the curve of his ass. 

Once they've gotten Clint completely naked, Phil stands back, to look and to let Bruce stake his claim again, to watch as they work their magic on each other's bodies, Clint with that calming hand so often on the back of Bruce's neck and moving up into his hair, Bruce with his fascination over Clint's shoulders, arms and hands, and the muscles of his back, tracing their shapes so precisely. 

But Clint notices his absence, and he says, "C'mere," beckoning Phil to rejoin them. 

"Where do you want me?" asks Phil. 

Clint looks to Bruce. 

"I didn't plan things this far," Bruce says. "All I know is I want to keep kissing you." 

"Uhh," Clint says, happily dazed and indecisive. "I want everything, I want both of you everywhere. I want both of you to have your mouths on me again. That was amazing." 

"That could probably be arranged," says Phil. 

Soon Clint is on his back on the bed and Bruce is lying next to him, kissing him, and Phil is kissing his way down Clint's stomach. Clint is moaning into the kiss even before Phil gets his mouth around him, and when he does, the kiss goes soft and lax and Bruce takes what he wants, working around the panting breaths. 

After a while Bruce pulls back just to look, to watch the expressions cross Clint's face as Phil's mouth works around him. He hasn't often gotten to see Clint's face like this, see the ecstasy on the archer's face when Bruce is still aware enough to truly appreciate it. Clint makes Bruce the priority consistently, and Bruce hadn't realized how much _he'd_ missed because of that. But now Bruce can see it all up close, the intensity and beauty of the expressions crossing Clint's face in waves, the almost lost look he gets as he comes, the way they coordinate with the twitches and breaths and other signs Bruce knows so well. It takes his breath away. Watching Clint like this is a gift. 

This new thing they're sharing is a gift, to all three of them. 


	9. Day 9, Prompt 15: Getting caught having sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follows straight from Day 8 and leads straight into Day 10 (if you know the challenge you can maybe guess what prompt I'm using for Day 10).

Clint lies panting, sated, on the bed, and his two lovers look at each other over his chest. Phil raises an eyebrow at Bruce, a silent question, and Bruce smiles, small but pleased, and rests his head against Clint's shoulder. 

Clint reaches out for both of them as he comes back to awareness, wrapping an arm around Bruce's shoulders and twining a hand with one of Phil's. "Goddamn, that was incredible," he says, still half mumbling. "Dunno how I got so lucky." He turns his head to kiss Bruce's forehead. "Brucey, you're up next, okay? Anythin' special you want?" 

"Don't care," Bruce replies. "Whatever you're up for." 

Clint rolls to his knees and settles between Bruce's legs, grinning. Then he starts kissing Bruce's chest, slow and careful and thorough as ever, even though Bruce is hard and ready. It's interesting the way Clint likes to build up and use the tension, but Phil's already proven a capacity for breaking it down, so Bruce is actually more relaxed than he usually would be when he's this aroused. 

"Can I help?" Phil asks. 

Clint looks up at him, slightly startled, then speculative. "Yeah," he says. "He likes hands in his hair. Slow, but keep moving, focus on the neck. Bruce, is that okay? You want Phil to do that while I blow you?" Clint asks, and then returns his mouth immediately to Bruce's belly, continuing his kissing and stroking. 

Bruce breathes deliberately for a minute, considering. "Yeah," he says. "I'd like that, I think." 

Phil backs himself up against the headboard, settling in so that he can cradle Bruce's head without getting in the way. He catches Bruce's eye and telegraphs his motions, but doesn't hesitate, first stroking Bruce's cheek and then combing fingers into his hair, pulling just slightly upwards, stretching and relaxing Bruce's neck. 

Then Clint's lips ghost across the skin of his cock, and Bruce shivers, and he feels pulled between two points, steady calming fingers in his hair and the point of ignition that is Clint's tongue now hungrily exploring the head of his cock. It's new and strange, the dichotomy of it, but not bad at all. Bruce closes his eyes, feeling that pull, the steady fingers against his scalp and Clint's hot mouth sinking down around him. 

Clint's hands are on him as well, on his hipbones and down his thighs, up again to his balls, squeezing lightly. He's savoring every touch, filling up with intoxicated pleasure, and he'd be fighting for control now, but Phil's hands are there, steady, orderly, full of a rhythm more measured than Clint's, helping him pace his breathing and ground his emotions. 

Clint's tongue is dragging against the underside of his cock, now, and the archer has one hand on his belly and the other under his balls, one knuckle grazing his perineum. Each touch, each sensation increases the heat; Clint has such mastery over his body, bringing him to the edge, to the ultimate possible pleasure. But today, Phil's presence undoes the limits; he's grounded and flying all at once and the intensity increases until Bruce is suspended in impossible ecstasy. Clint is pressing perfectly against that point behind his balls and his other hand and tongue are working at Bruce's cock; he's sucking and pressing at the slit, and Bruce's hands grip tighter at Clint's shoulders and his eyes snap wide, head tilting back, and there's Phil, catching Bruce's shocked gaze and holding it as he comes. 

Steel blue, uncompromising, accepting. 

Clint's swallowing and Bruce is breathing in shocked little bursts, body shaking and twitching and finally settling as Clint pulls away. Bruce pets at his shoulders, and he comes up the bed so that he's in easier reach, and he kisses Bruce softly and proprietarily, smiling at him. 

"Seemed like that worked for you," Clint says, amused. 

"Yeah," Bruce agrees, too empty to elaborate. 

"Does that happen a lot," Phil asks, "your eyes going green?" 

"Only when they agree on something," Clint answers, grin widening. "When Hulk's being ornery, hands usually go first. Hands mean he's feeling smashy. Eyes just mean he's interested." 

"Good to know," Phil replies. "Seen both a lot?" 

"It goes in phases. Hulk's been pretty chill recently, but he and Bruce can get in some nasty disagreements." 

"Things I would not have thought to ask." Phil's hand combs through Bruce's hair again. "So what do you suggest we do next?" 

Clint looks at Bruce's dazed, content expression. "Think Bruce is pretty thoroughly taken care of," he says. "Your turn." He pats the bed, close enough to where Bruce is that he can touch both of them at once. 

Phil nods, settling back, cock standing at full attention. Clint smirks. "Guess that worked pretty well for you, too," he comments. 

"I've never seen anything like it," Phil agrees. 

"Bruce is pretty extraordinary." Clint looks at Phil, then back at Bruce, and he has an idea. He takes Bruce's hand with both of his and looks a question at the doctor, who gives the slow blink that means 'yes' when he's like this. Then Clint wraps all three hands around Phil's cock. 

Clint's palms massage the underside while his fingers support Bruce's hand, cradling the top, and Bruce's fingers flutter across the head. Phil makes an aborted noise - he kept quiet the first time Clint had been with him, and said he usually could; Clint wonders how long it's been - and he reaches out, grabbing Bruce's arm and a handful of sheets. Clint smiles smugly and continues his motions. 

Maybe a minute later, Phil is breathing hard and clearly close, so Clint tightens his grip and brings his mouth down, tongue just flicking against the head, and Phil shudders and comes, all across his own stomach and Bruce's fingers, mouth beautifully wide and overwhelmed. 

Clint takes their hands away, clasping Bruce's in his own, smudging Phil's come between them as he does. 

"This... was not what I was expecting," says a familiar female voice from the doorway. "When I came to see why your meeting was running so long." 

None of them care to move or cover up as Natasha stalks closer to the trio on the bed. She's seen them all naked before, after all, if not quite in this context. 

Clint turns to her and shrugs, not really surprised to see her, knowing her suspicious nature. Natasha just shakes her head and says, "Clint." 

She leaves the room, but Clint knows she will be waiting outside for an explanation. Clint can't bring himself to care. Right now, he's got everything he could ever want.


	10. Day 10, Prompt 11: Explaining their relationship to a disapproving third (fourth) party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, this has no porn in it. So goes the "explaining" prompt. *sigh*

Clint goes to get a washcloth to clean them up, and then there's a search for clothes. Bruce and Clint obviously have fresh ones to hand, but Phil's left with just the boxer briefs he'd been wearing under his suit, abandoned in the living room, and he debates between borrowing something or walking out like this to meet Natasha. He doesn't have anything to be ashamed of. But the scar is an unpleasant reminder. 

He ends up borrowing one of Bruce's shirts, a black [tee](http://www.thinkgeek.com/product/15cc/) bearing the slogan: _There are two kinds of people in the world: those who can extrapolate from incomplete data._ He appreciates the sentiment. 

Clint bullies Bruce out of bed with nudges and kisses and the promise of strong green tea, which is half threat because Clint can never mix the matcha properly. Bruce eventually rises, scrubbing fingers through his hair and glancing blearily around the room before putting on the clothes Clint has tossed in his direction. 

They all meander out into the main living area at more or less the same time, because Clint is the first ready but he's not going out to face that alone. He puts on the kettle and gets out four mugs, opening the tea cupboard and gesturing for Phil to pick something. He gets down the matcha and a smoked tea for Natasha, wiggling it in her direction as an unspoken question. She glares, then rolls her eyes, then nods. 

Bruce slumps into his usual seat at the breakfast bar, not unhappy at all, but rather limp and content, and he watches with good humor as Clint begins his attempt to properly make him tea. Clint doesn't get very far, though. Phil appropriates the cup from Clint's hands and starts whipping the water and powder together with brisk efficiency. 

"Where'd you learn that?" Clint asks, watching with interest. 

"Melinda." 

"Isn't she Chinese?" 

"Originally. So is matcha. Originally." 

"Huh," says Clint, and goes to see if they still have any of the hot chocolate packets with the oreo-flavored marshmallows in them. 

Once everyone's settled with their beverages of choice (Phil made himself a second cup of green tea after setting the first in front of an appreciative Bruce), Natasha clears her throat. 

"Clint," she says. "I trust your judgement, up to a point. But this? This was an incredibly stupid stunt to pull." 

Phil is the one who replies first. "If it were just a 'stunt,' Tasha, I wouldn't have gone along with it. He's not the only one who bears the responsibility here. So if you're going to give a lecture, please direct at least thirty percent of your lovely death glare in this direction." 

Natasha shakes her head. "Boss, I don't have a baseline for you right now. I don't know what's been happening to you since the last time we worked the same mission. And that was when you got stabbed through the chest, putting yourself between Loki and his objective. So I _don't_ trust your judgement right now." 

Clint cringes, hearing that. She has a point. He glances at Phil, who takes it in placidly. But he does reply. "You could have mentioned that when we talked about issues that might come up with my new assignment." 

"I answered honestly. I still trust you more than any other agent they could assign to the position. That's just... not a lot right now. And this...." Her eyes flick between the three men. "...Does not help." 

"I don't get what's so awful about it," Clint says, sipping his cocoa. "When exactly did you become such a prude." 

"What's bad about it is it makes a volatile situation even more unstable," she says. "I was only okay with the two of you in the first place because I thought you were going to make some attempt to minimize disturbing the Hulk." 

"You should probably be more worried about that yourself," Clint tells Natasha. "You interrupted Brucey's afterglow, and it was one of the _really good_ ones, too." 

"This isn't a joke, Clint." 

Clint sighs. "Fine. All right. I get that he's dangerous. So does Phil. And we're being careful. Okay?" 

"Clint. Hulk's a good teammate, he's doing better at listening and being careful. But it's his nature to channel emotions into violence. And _no one_ handles jealousy particularly well." 

"You're right," says Bruce quietly, over the brim of his tea. "It's a concern. But we made a decision that pursuing this would be worth the risk, and I stand by that." 

Natasha's eyes drill into him for a moment, and then her expression turns to resignation. "You could stand up for yourself, you know," she tells him. "Coulson doesn't have any right to be part of Clint's life the way you are. I was there from the beginning. I know how much you care about Clint." 

"And what if I genuinely want this, too?" he asks her. 

"If that were the case," she says evenly, "why would you agree with me that jealousy is a concern?" 

Bruce sighs deeply, peering into his tea. Then he looks up at her again. "You want to tell me you never have contradictory emotions? Must be nice, always knowing exactly what you want, never being conflicted." 

"I didn't say that," she replies. "But if it's a concern? It's gotta be a substantial element." 

"It's possible you don't understand how careful I've been about avoiding even the smallest concerns." 

"So what changed?" Natasha asks. 

"I found _people_ ," he says, throwing unavoidable emphasis on the plural, "who help me stay calm and stable, and who give me an appreciation for how rich life can be if I'm not always waiting for everything to spin out of control." 

Natasha considers this, and she brings her tea up to her nose to savor its scent. Then she nods, and sips. "I hope you know what you're doing," she tells the three of them. "I really do. Because I am sick of worrying and grieving over you three." She shoots Phil an especially pointed glare. Then she takes a longer sip, breaking eye contact and cutting off that part of the conversation. 

Clint, who's been pacing the kitchen, now comes to wrap his arms around Bruce, whispering in his ear. "Thank you," he says. "Didn't mean to make you field that. I know this is my crap that you got dragged into." 

Bruce leans into Clint, resting his head on the archer's shoulder. "I meant all of it, you know that, right?" he replies, low and quiet, but earnest. "I like what we're doing. I like him." 

Clint smiles as he holds tight to Bruce, rocking slightly. "Yeah," he says. "I'm getting that. I'm glad."


	11. Day 11, Prompt 16: Latex/leather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is A Doozy. More than 3k, lots of setup/plot. But there is eventually smut.

"So I know a lot already about you," Phil says to Clint, "and I've heard a lot about you," he continues, turning to Bruce, as the two are curled up on either side of him on the couch. "But tell me about the two of you. What's your routine, favorite places, funny stories? Any places I should be sure to take you both for dinner, or sure not to?" 

Clint snickers, knowing the story behind that question. He'll have to make Phil tell it to Bruce some time. 

Bruce shifts slightly awkwardly against Phil's side. "We don't really leave the tower all that much, actually," he says. "It's predictable, and it's got everything we need." 

"Yeah, and I get the feeling the Hulk hates Manhattan traffic about as much as the rest of us," Clint adds. 

"It's not so much the traffic as being shut up in a metal box," Bruce says. "Walking's better, except I'm not so hot on being recognized. I'm never sure how people are going to react." 

"Huh," says Clint. "What's the Big Guy's stance on motorcycles?" 

A rare, relaxed smile crosses Bruce's features. "Motorcycles are good," he says. 

"How did I not know this?" Clint demands. 

Bruce shrugs. "It's not like I've actually ever owned one or had a license for one." 

"Phil. I need a motorcycle. Now." 

"Looks like you do," Phil answers. 

"How do you always do that, get people to talk to you and tell you stuff about them?" Clint asks Phil, annoyed. 

"I ask," Phil says with a slightly smug little smile. 

"Cheater," Clint replies, head sinking back onto Phil's shoulder. 

But then they go on to talk about where Bruce likes to go to get groceries, the fact that he cooks for Clint regularly and the food is, according to Clint, "better than pretty much everything ever," and they talk about Bruce's archery lessons and how they help him interact with the Hulk. They talk about the movies and TV they've watched together and teaching Cap to play video games; pretty much their whole story comes tumbling out. 

Phil combs his fingers through Bruce's hair and keeps an arm tight around Clint and absorbs every last bit of it. 

Phil has to go report back to Fury, and they aren't quite sure what's going to become of his 'new assignment' once he does, but he tells them both he's going to try to keep it, that as much as he liked the team they had him leading for the last few months, he's reconsidering the wisdom of being out in the field again, anyway. Clint looks at him with concern when he hears this, but Coulson brushes it off, back in his Agent suit and straightening his tie. He kisses them both, then goes off to meet his SHIELD-mandated fate with equanimity. 

They distract themselves, which predictably means that Clint goes to the range and Bruce seeks out Tony and work. Tony is neck deep in a suit rebuild and looks like he has been all day, and Bruce smiles to himself, because Tony is Tony and because he clearly didn't notice what Natasha did, that the three of them were holed up in Bruce's apartment for most of the day, and Bruce won't have to worry about those sharp, curious eyes on him for a while yet, if he knows his Tony Stark. Which he does. 

Bruce asks Jarvis if there's been anything earmarked for his perusal in Tony's recent flurry of activity, and he goes on to connect with Tony in what's likely the most meaningful way for them anyway - through jots of half-formed ideas and little notes along the lines of 'what am I missing here?' or 'not my area - yet.' He gets lost in the biochemical end of the medical nanobots, adjusting them for different applications and factors, and Tony and Bruce work next to each other for hours without acknowledging each other in any way but digitally. Tony talks, of course - when does he not? - but it's all directed at Jarvis, and Bruce can't be certain the engineer is actually aware they're sharing the same space. 

Then Jarvis throws him a text from Agent Coulson - Phil - and Bruce leaves again, without ever having given Tony so much as a nod. 

He meets Clint in the elevator, all sweaty and delicious-looking, but they've got news to hear, so Bruce just kisses him on the cheek and settles in next to him. His tiny appreciative smile is echoed on Clint's face, and Bruce wonders what kind of possible appeal hours spent in front of a computer interface could give him to compare to that worn glow that Clint's got. 

Phil's waiting for them in their apartment, and he's wearing jeans. 

Bruce likes it - it's calm and comfortable, he's missing that official air that was a little too close to military for his peace of mind - but Clint's face falls slightly. 

"That bad?" Clint asks. 

"Could've been worse," Phil answers. He sits at their kitchen table, and they follow. "Officially, I'm on leave because I expressed doubts about my readiness to be in the field. Unofficially, I think Nick is hoping I'll get this out of my system." His eyes glint in a way that makes them both sure that that's not going to happen. "He wants to see where the chips fall before deciding what to do with me. Hill's now your liaison again, more or less temporarily." 

"Okay," Clint says. "Yeah, could be worse. What's the plan?" 

"We need to tell the rest of the team." 

"But not tonight," Bruce interrupts. "It's late. Tony's going to crash soon and sleep probably well into tomorrow. Steve is pretty great at minding his own business. Natasha already knows the basics. Sleep is my next order of business. Who's going to join me?" 

Phil nods in agreement. "You're right." He stands, then there's a momentary hesitation. "I could make other arrangements, if you...." 

Clint shakes his head. "Now that I've got you back, I don't wanna let you out of my sight 'less I have to." Phil looks to Bruce, who just smiles. 

So they end up slotted together like a set of spoons, Phil in Clint's arms, Bruce against Clint's back, with an arm thrown over both of them. 

"Oh, I brought you a present," Phil says, just as he's drifting off. 

"Tomorrow," says Bruce. 

And Clint thinks that is the most beautiful word he's ever heard. 

* * *

Phil Coulson wakes up in a pile of blankets and warm bodies, which is odd. 

He shifts, and Clint grumbles and slumps further across him. Clint. Well, this is better than the other dreams he's been having recently. 

But there's another arm draped across Clint and hand splayed across Phil's middle, and he doesn't immediately recognize it. He blinks away sleep, trying to remember how he got here. 

Bruce Banner. Of course, Bruce. Bruce who'd taken such good care of his archer while he was away. Bruce, who's unbelievably generous with what he clearly has the stronger claim to. 

Phil reaches out and squeezes his hand. 

A hum greets him from across the heap of archer that separates them. Bruce is awake, and simply enjoying his spot too much to move. 

Phil, it seems, is the only one anxious to get to the business of the day. 

"Clint," he says, and when that produces no response, he says, "Barton." 

Clint's head snaps up, and Phil feels momentarily bad, but then Clint breaks into a grin. "Sir," he teases. 

Phil pulls him down for a kiss. 

Clint kisses him, deep and strong and hungry, then he twists around to face Bruce, kissing the other man as well, a little softer, a little more familiar, an embrace that lingers. "Breakfast?" he asks, arms still wrapped around Bruce. 

"Sure," Bruce answers. He gently pushes free of Clint's arms and sits up. "Phil, you like the same cheap diner food Clint always begs me for?" 

"Yeah," Clint answers for him, "but he's got even more of a sweet tooth." 

"French toast?" Bruce offers. 

"You don't have to," Phil begins. 

"Cooking is one of my calm things," Bruce says, allowing for no argument, and heads out into the kitchen in his boxers. 

Phil raises his eyebrows at Clint, who smiles, somehow smug, but also soft and a bit sad. 

"You deserve everything you've got," Phil tells him firmly, recognizing the way he's masking doubt with cockiness. 

"If you say so, Boss," he answers. He hefts himself out of the bed. "You coming? Hell of a show." 

Phil follows Clint out to the breakfast bar, where they sit and watch Bruce move around the kitchen in only his boxers, movements smooth and precise and eyes flicking from one thing to another, factors and calculations passing behind them as he works. There is actually a coffee maker, Phil notes with relief, and Bruce has set it to brewing. Phil can survive on strong green tea in the morning, but he does prefer coffee. 

Bruce has two pans going, one with bacon and one with the french toast, and he's washing and cutting fruit into a bowl. When the coffee's done he hands them each a mug before Phil can move to do so. Clint hadn't even shifted. "Don't breach the radius," Clint says in an aside to Phil. "He's doing his thing. He prefers an audience to a helping hand." Soon cream and sugar and spoons join their mugs, and Phil can feel curious eyes on him as he doctors his cup. 

Breakfast is pretty much perfect. It's definitely got the greasy-and-filling charm of diner food, but it's rich with the feeling of home, too. Bruce sits at the end of the bar, Earl Grey in his cup, and there's a little satisfied smile on his face as he watches them eat, listens to Clint's noises of appreciation. 

After they're done Phil checks in with Jarvis, learning that Tony is still asleep and Steve is out, doing some kind of volunteer work with local kids. "I will let them know that you wish to speak with them as soon as they become available," the AI assures. 

"Thank you, Jarvis," Phil answers. He eyes the other two speculatively. "Well, if we've got time, I think it's time to show you what I drove in on last night," he says. 

Clint just looks at him for a moment. "Are you serious? 'Course you are, you're Agent Coulson. But I mean, are you _serious?_ " 

Phil just nods briskly. "Time to get dressed," he tells them. 

Clint frowns just a bit, then he says, "Tell you what, meet you guys down there, I'm gonna go up to my floor for some things, all right?" 

Phil smiles and nods again. Clint darts towards the elevator. 

"Did you seriously go out last night and buy Clint a motorcycle?" Bruce asks Phil as they go to retrieve clothes. 

"I bought _both_ of you a motorcycle," Phil corrects. "If you want a license for it, I can expedite the paperwork. I know people." 

Bruce's eyes sparkle. "That's a generous offer for someone you only met two days ago," he teases. He gets out jeans and a jacket that's ratty and old, but tough. 

"Bruce," says Phil, "if this is going to work, I have to be here for both of you. I know that." 

Bruce puts his jacket on, and he smiles at Phil. "That's good to hear," he says, "but things rarely work out the way I'd like them to." 

"Shit," Phil says, perfectly even but tight. "Bruce. Listen to me. Clint believes in this. When he believes in something, he gives it all he's got. He makes it happen, or he gets beat all to hell trying. So please, don't get in his way. Don't get in your own way." 

Bruce looks into those steel blue eyes, feels logic and reason and passion and _truth_ close around him like a trap. He takes a breath, accepting it all. 

"Yes," he says. "All right." 

"Good," Phil says, nodding. "Now, let's get down there." 

The motorcycle is a fast little thing, black and deep red-purple, matching the stylized fletch on the front of Hawkeye's suit. Bruce admires it in a practical way; he appreciates sturdy vehicles that look like they can take a beating, more than he appreciates grace or speed. 

"Sweet," Clint says from behind them, coming out of the elevator at last. Bruce turns to greet him. 

His brain stalls a bit. 

His mouth works a little bit before he can get his words into the order of the question he wants to ask. "Why do you have leathers if you didn't have a motorcycle?" 

"Used to," he says. "Kinda mighta rode it off a bridge once." Clint kisses Phil, then murmurs, "Thanks." 

"That can happen when you make your personal vehicles available for use during missions," Phil says. 

Clint has gotten astride the bike now, checking the thing out. "Reminds me, where did Lola get to?" 

"I've been parking her on the Bus," says Phil, "but I'll move her when I get a chance. I wasn't planning for a change of assignments. Stark more or less kidnapped me." 

"You do kinda have a habit of being elusive," Clint reminds him. "And we wouldn't have believed him if he hadn't had you on hand to show." He turns to Bruce, beckoning, patting the back of the bike. "How's Hulk feel about flying red convertibles?" 

Bruce approaches, laughing. "Sounds a lot like hitching a ride with Iron Man. Maybe a little more secure." 

"With Phil behind the wheel? More than a little." Clint hands over the helmet he brought down with him, and grabs the one that's hanging over the handlebars, matched to the bike. He pats Bruce's hands where they rest on the front of his leather jacket. "Ready to try this thing out?" 

"Yeah," says Bruce, resting his chin on Clint's shoulder. 

Clint grins sideways at him, and starts the engine. He turns the bike to face the exit, blows Phil another kiss, puts down his visor and then they're away. 

It's late morning by now and the traffic's not terrible; it's not exactly a thrilling chase, but that doesn't matter. They're outside in the open and they're moving, seeing the city, and Bruce's arms are wrapped tight around Clint's chest and his thighs are pressed against Clint's, and Bruce is smiling and Hulk is looking out from behind his eyes and smiling too. 

They ride around for a while, looping through Central Park, going nowhere in particular, and then they head back, into the cavern of Stark Tower's garage. Which is good, because being so tightly pressed against Clint when he's doing something that he clearly loves, one of his very physical talents, has Bruce a little on edge, in the best of ways. 

Clint parks, and they take off their helmets, and Phil is still there, standing in the soft sweater he'd put on that's a clear signal that he isn't expecting a ride of his own. He's smiling like he knows exactly what he's done. 

Clint slings his leg back over, but he doesn't even get off the bike before kissing Bruce, hungrily and breathlessly. Bruce shows him that he wholeheartedly agrees. 

Then Clint hops up to give a more thorough thank-you kiss to Phil, but Phil pulls away after just a second or two. "Rogers's bike is still gone," Phil says, blushing just a bit and pointing out the other motorcycle spots. "I'm not really that eager for him to catch us... being intimate before we have a chance to explain." 

Clint bites his lip, trying not to laugh. "That's adorable, Sir," he can't resist saying. 

"Do you intentionally only call him Sir at the most ironic of moments?" Bruce asks curiously as they're heading towards the elevator. 

"Yes," the other two answer simultaneously, Clint with smug humor and Phil with resignation. "That is not new," Phil continues. 

"Thank you, though," Clint says, leaning into Phil once the doors have closed. "That was amazing. It _is_ amazing. Can't wait to really give it a good run. Not exactly built for three, though." 

"That's what Lola is for," Phil says placidly, giving Clint another kiss. "Now go kiss your Bruce." 

"Yes, Sir," Clint says enthusiastically. Phil smiles. 

Bruce and Clint fall into each other again, kissing deeply, Bruce's hands gripping at the leather of Clint's jacket where it's cinched tightly around his waist, Clint's hands in Bruce's hair, mussing it up from where it got smooshed by the helmet. There's an urgency to the kiss that's new, an exhilaration that Clint's filled with and Hulk tasted and it's filling up Bruce from both sides. 

Phil guides them free of the confines of the elevator and through the living areas, into the bedroom. He's set to take the chair but they drift that way, so he settles on the bed happily enough, watching. 

It's Bruce who spares a glance for him today, but Phil just shakes his head, sinking further into the pillows at the head of the bed. He's pretty sure he's going to enjoy this plenty. 

Bruce is perfectly fine with having Clint to himself right now. They've both kicked off their shoes and Bruce's jacket has been shed and Clint's is hanging loose now, Bruce's hands running between jacket lining and tee shirt with eager unsteadiness. Clint reaches down to undo his chaps but Bruce makes a little disappointed noise. 

"You know it's kinda hard to get my pants off without taking these off first, right?" Clint says. "Or do you want me just like this?" 

"No," Bruce says between breaths. "Want you to ride me." 

Clint closes his eyes, considering that image and feeling Bruce's hands on him, inching under his shirt now, gripping at him. "Okay," Clint says, voice rough. "Yeah. I'll put 'em back on, okay?" 

They get Bruce's shirt off, and then Clint chews at his neck and ears for a bit, and Bruce pushes off his jacket and starts hitching up his shirt. Clint tugs it off the rest of the way, and Bruce takes advantage of the new access to Clint's chest and shoulders, fingers and lips wandering across them. Bruce's pants come next, and then Clint backs him into the chair, kissing him and applying a leather-clad knee to his groin. Bruce groans eloquently, head rocking back into the dark fabric. 

Clint stands again and makes a show of it, for both of the men watching, unbuckling and slipping out of the chaps, wiggling out of the jeans and underwear, placing a foot between Bruce's legs on the chair for support, leering at Bruce while he's there. Then he buckles the leather back on, and settles in over Bruce on the chair, flesh pressing against flesh and leather pressing against flesh. They both draw great shuddering breaths, and then Clint bends to kiss Bruce again, thorough and wet. 

Clint looks around for what he needs, and sees that there's a condom tucked into the corner of the shelf by the chair, but the lube isn't within reach. He looks in Phil's direction to see him splayed on the bed, fly open, lube in hand. Phil tosses, Clint catches flawlessly without thought. Then he grins. 

The expression soon melts to directionless bliss as Bruce takes hold of his ass and pulls them closer together. He nearly drops the bottle again. Bruce takes it from him and opens it, spreading some across his fingers. He opens Clint more quickly than last time, but no less carefully, pressing and stretching thoroughly. Clint jerks against him as the fingers move inside him, and they have to stop just to breathe against each other, foreheads pressed together in deep rapport. 

Clint lifts his head and reaches for the condom, and he pulls back just enough to slip it over Bruce's cock, being generous with the lube because he isn't as thoroughly prepared as last time but he really doesn't think he can stand to wait any longer. Bruce watches in dazed awe as Clint lifts himself up and settles over Bruce's cock, one hand guiding it in and the other holding on to the back of the chair for support. 

Clint lowers himself further, inch by inch, caught between pleasure and pain and not being able to resist taking pleasure. He breathes out slow and harsh, hissing, face contorting with every sensation. Bruce whines and his hands clench over Clint's leather-clad thighs, and he writhes within the little space he has to move. 

Clint sits and breathes hard for another moment, then he makes a rolling motion that brings a gasp out of them both, before starting to lift himself again. There's mostly loud breath and slow intensity, building tension and working muscles. Clint's thighs bulge with effort, and Bruce can feel it even through the thick chaps, the strength of that magnificent body and all it can do. He wants to tell Clint, but all that will come out of his mouth is strained noises and garbled syllables. 

Clint can feel himself opening, and he presses for more speed, more motion, but he's already so hard, and much more will finish him. He reaches down to flick his thumb across one of Bruce's nipples, and he feels rather than hears the resulting shuddering gasp. Bruce is close too. Bruce reaches for Clint's too-ready erection, and the first brush is like an electric shock, making Clint yelp. Bruce's hand closes, and like a switch connecting, Clint is full of that current, everything passing through him and bringing him to hyperawareness, a state too bright with life. 

He may, in fact, scream. 

Then Bruce is pumping and pulsing into him, and it's weightless and heady and impossible, and Clint can only hold on and maybe breathe; that part seems problematic just now. 

But that ability does, eventually, come back; the rest of them don't seem terribly eager to follow. He can't even figure out how to slump down onto Bruce until the doctor's hands pull him down, pull Clint's head onto Bruce's shoulder, and it's only then that Clint realizes he's shaking, absolutely limp, very much unable to move. 

Phil has finished himself off by now, and he comes over, rubs Clint's back with stable, purposeful hands, and whispers, "Come on, beautiful," into Clint's ear. He lifts the shaking hands from the back of the chair and lowers them, helping Clint shift positions until he's cradled against Bruce. 

Bruce's still-dazed but understanding eyes catch Phil's, and he gives a nod of thanks and a hint of a smile. Phil just stays, perching on the end of the bed, watching over them both. He'd never seen anything so beautiful as the way Clint's back arched when he screamed. 

It's several minutes later that Clint can bring himself to move at all, and then it's only to shift against Bruce, press lips to his ear to murmur, "So that's how it is." 

Bruce squeezes him tighter, and smiles.


	12. Day 12, Prompt 21: Pain/sensation play

After lunch they meet with Tony and Steve to explain the situation. 

Tony is... very impressed. He grins lewdly and cracks all kinds of jokes. At least, that's the facade he shows. But he makes an excuse to take Coulson aside and threaten him thoroughly, no more humor in his eyes as he says, "Agent, if you and Clint _ever_ even _think_ about doing your own thing and leaving Bruce in the cold... you don't want to know what I'm capable of doing to people who hurt my friends that way. And neither do I. So just don't. Are we clear?" 

"We are clear," Phil says solemnly. 

"Good," says Tony, losing a little of his momentum. He looks at Phil with a little more earnest curiosity. "You know how great he is, right? You're not just in it for Clint? Because...." 

"Bruce is extraordinary," Phil says with a hint of softness and awe. "It's not going to be hard to get very attached to him." 

"Good," says Tony again. "Okay. Because he's pretty great. Almost as smart as me and selfless to boot. Somebody's gotta look out for him." 

"I know," says Phil. 

"All right, thanks for clearing that up for me, Agent," Tony says more loudly, beginning to saunter back towards the other three. 

"You're very welcome," Coulson replies. 

Steve is mostly confused. 

"I'm pretty sure that's called 'cheating'," he says. 

"A lot of other people would see it that way too," says Clint, hand playing with the hair on the back of his neck, looking self-conscious and maybe just a bit guilty still. 

"But it's not," Bruce says. "We're not married, we didn't make any vows, and he talked to me about it and got my permission. And it's not just between each of us and Clint. It's the three of us together, like a team." 

"I don't... how does that even...." Steve cringes with the force of his inability to even phrase his lack of understanding into a question. 

"We're all here for each other," Phil says, coming up next to Bruce and slipping his arms around the doctor, kissing him on the cheek. Bruce's face slowly widens in a smile. 

"I guess," Steve says slowly, "if you're all really okay with it?" The confusion hasn't left his face. "I'm still not sure how that...." 

"If this is about the physical logistics," Phil says evenly, "then respectfully, Captain, it's none of your business." 

"No, I... I mean...." 

"Cap, I want to state for the record right now that if you're having dirty thoughts about my dad and Aunt Peggy..." Tony says, then shudders theatrically. "Please, don't tell me about it." 

Steve turns scarlet. 

(If the thoughts in question are actually about Tony and Pepper, well, no one has to know that, either. Ever.) 

Phil clears his throat. 

"That's the extent of what you're going to get on that subject, so you need to decide if it's something you can work with. Director Fury's on the fence with regards to my continuing in this assignment; Hill's officially back on as temporary liaison. Admittedly, this could cause problems in the area of conflicts of interest. But it also means that I'm more determined to stay local; Fury is pretty determined that I be kept working for SHIELD in a position that takes advantage of my skills, but I've told him that I don't feel ready to be in the field again, so I think he'll seriously consider this, if the team is still comfortable with it." 

He doesn't let go of Bruce, as if to underline that it's a factor to consider, one that's not going away. 

"Yeah, hey, what's that about, anyway?" Clint asks, looking worriedly at Phil. "You never said why. Been cleared and on the Bus for what, two, three months? And now you're not ready?" 

"Some of my muscle memory is gone," Phil says. "And my memory has been... not entirely reliable. The kind of vulnerabilities you can't really test for until you get put under real-world pressure. But now that I know they're there?" He shakes his head briskly. "I don't want to be the weak link in the field." 

Bruce's forehead wrinkles, and he looks at Phil more closely, squeezing him just a bit. "Later, you're going to tell me more about that," he says. 

Phil fully realizes in that moment that he's in a relationship with a man who's a genius in a lot of fields, someone who has more experience with experimental biotech than probably anyone else in the world. He squeezes back and nods fractionally. "That's probably a good idea," he says. 

Natasha walks out into the common area then, and her eye catches Phil's in a way that makes him certain she's been listening in. It's a quick, sharp look, letting him know that they'll talk later as well. 

"They've got my support," she tells the others. "Provisionally. And I'd rather keep them close so I can keep an eye on them. Phil can do this job better than anyone, personal interest be damned. He did it before, with me and Clint, and he's been in love with Clint for years. I doubt there'll be a significant difference in performance from mooning over half his team, to _actively sleeping_ with half his team." 

"Forty percent," Bruce corrects. 

Phil chuckles. 

"I'm not worried about that," Steve says firmly. "In my experience, having all different kinds of bonds between people on a team only makes it stronger. If it works for you, it works for me. I'm just... I'm probably going to need a little while to adjust to the idea before I can talk about it without stepping on anyone's toes." 

"That's understandable," Phil says. "Stark?" 

"Well, I'm not sure if I can respect you the same way, now that I've seen you in blue jeans," Tony snarks, "but this is your own business. With the exception of the points we discussed earlier. I'm in." 

"Good," says Clint. "'Cause we were pretty much always gonna be fighting for it. Always good to have the Avengers on your side." 

Steve nods. "We're with you," he says. Then he congratulates them, shaking their hands, even, which is the first time during the conversation that Agent Coulson has looked flustered. 

The informal meeting disperses, and Clint drags his boyfriends back home. He gets them all settled on the couch, and then he says, "Phil. Tell us." 

Phil sighs. "Ever since I woke up, I've felt off," he admits. "Not quite myself. I'm... different." 

"What happened?" Clint asks. "Do you know how bad you were hurt?" 

"They said I died," Phil muses, and his hands are uncharacteristically restless, so Bruce grabs up the one near him, and Clint follows his example on the other side. "They said eight seconds, but that seems wrong. They said Loki's spear missed my heart. I'm not so certain I believe that either. There's no part of me that reacts exactly the way I remember." 

Bruce strokes the back of Phil's hand with his thumb, pondering. "I'm assuming you've talked to your doctors about any lingering effects you might be experiencing, either from the injuries or your treatments?" 

"All they'll tell me is that I'm perfectly healthy. And I am, as far as I can tell. It just... sometimes it doesn't seem like I'm quite... me." 

"I'm pretty sure you're you," says Clint. "If that helps." 

"It does," Phil says, regarding him with earnest eyes. "You probably knew me the best, before. Melinda tried to tell me everything was fine, but there was... something in her eyes. I've felt better ever since you started looking at me straight again." 

"And there's nothing more concrete?" Bruce asks, hand still cradling Phil's. "Anything specific that you could point to that might tell us what's wrong?" 

"Muscle memory, things I've done thousands of times, drilled into my head, just gone, won't come back. May says I'm rusty. But I've been undercover without a sidearm for longer than I was on medical leave. And now I can't change a damn magazine. The memories of when I first woke up, they're not quite right, I dream about them and they feel wrong. Whenever I wake up, it's hard for me to tell if I'm still dreaming. I'm never sure that anything is real, that I'm even real." There's a lot of pain making itself known in his voice. "I just want to know the truth. I want to feel like myself. Like I know myself." 

"Shit," says Clint. "Phil." He snugs up against Coulson's side. 

"That's really not your standard recovery. I can run a few tests, see if anything comes up," Bruce says. 

"It probably won't. I feel fine. In some ways. And I got a second opinion, basic physical with the biochem specialist on the team I was supervising. If she's in on some kind of coverup, I am seriously losing my touch." Phil considers again what he's just said, then his features go pinched and he shrugs. "But you might as well." 

"Tomorrow," says Bruce. "For now, let's just take care of you." 

"I don't know if I like that idea," Phil says. "People have been treating me like they don't know quite how to act around me, ever since I woke up. Too careful. Telling me to take it slow. It doesn't help. I'm not a damn invalid... whatever I am." 

Bruce sighs. "Okay," he says. He's turned to the side, watching Phil's face as he talks. "What do you need?" 

Phil meets Bruce's searching eyes. "Whatever you do, don't be gentle with me." 

Bruce is tense from the uncertainty of the team's reception to what they've decided to be; he's angry with SHIELD for keeping Phil in the dark, for being the same kind of self-justifying martial force that termed Bruce property after funding the experiments that were done on him. And he knows that too-careful attitude, that reluctance to jostle an unknown or unstable quantity that leaves the subject so isolated. 

He pounces on Phil, and Clint is shocked because if he'd ever thought about it, he would've pegged their first kiss as calm and considered, a continuation of the patterns in which they live their lives. But this is fiery, almost vicious, Bruce leading the attack and Phil taking it gladly. 

Phil moans in what sounds like relief as Bruce sucks a dark blotch of a bruise onto his neck, and then Bruce is pulling at his sweater, yanking it up and off. 

His eyes are green-and-brown, mottled, in equal measure. 

Phil's scar is ugly, thick raised ridges of waxy scar tissue; Clint saw it before, but now it's somehow more menacing, a sign of everything that's unsettling Phil. 

Bruce is kissing Phil again, hot and deep and dark, and Phil is holding on to him as if his sanity depends on it; he's leaning into Bruce, into Hulk, into hazard and the unknown as willingly as he always does. 

But Clint can tell, as he puts a hand on Bruce's neck, that there's no real danger; all the tension is well-channeled and precise. Bruce is one with the weapon, one with the Hulk, and he's using that to give Phil some of what he needs. 

Clint watches from a little distance until he can see more of what Phil might need. Then he approaches from the other side, leaning over the back of the couch and sliding his arms over Phil's shoulders, reaching for that scar. 

His fingers brush along the ridge of it. "Does it still hurt?" he asks Coulson. "How often, how much?" 

"Barely," Phil answers, between breaths just beginning to go ragged. "Not most of the time." 

"Do you wish it would?" 

Phil's movements stall in reaction, and Clint only knows he's made the right call when he sees that Bruce has undone Phil's jeans to reveal a bulge in his underwear, and it's only growing as Clint's fingers work across the scar. "Yes," gasps Phil at last. Then Bruce palms ungently at the cloth-covered bulge, and Phil hisses, pressing into it. 

"Tell me if I'm hurting you," Clint says, but not as if he plans on avoiding it. His fingers map every ridge, every dip, pressing, digging in now and again. 

"Yes," Phil breathes again as Clint presses against tender flesh. "There. That hurts. That's where it happened." 

Clint hums in his ear, continuing, seeking out other sore spots. Bruce's hands are at work lower down; he's kneeling on the floor, dragging Phil's jeans and underwear off him, and then he bites at a spot high on Phil's inner thigh, sucking again, deep and bruising. 

It's not sudden, it's not complete, but for Phil, everything's inching towards clarity, sharpening in focus; the pain and arousal are new trail markers, guide points he can use. He doesn't feel at home in his body, but he finally feels like it's within reach. Possible. 

Clint's unerring fingers find another tender spot and press, and Phil twists into it, panting. Bruce's hand closes around his dick and yanks. A choked noise escapes the agent. Bruce does it again. 

Clint's teeth are on his neck now, giving him a bruise to match Bruce's first, on the other side. Bruce's hand on his cock has settled into a pattern, more pleasurable but still not quite gentle. And Clint's hands are both still on his chest, still searching out those spots, those sensations that tell Phil that what happened was real, that he is real. 

Bruce bites at his belly next, and the stubble of his cheek rubs against Phil's cock, and Phil gasps and shivers, getting close, but it's not until Bruce closes his mouth around him, teeth and all, that Phil comes, open-mouthed, overwhelmed. 

Bruce swallows and withdraws, laying a cheek down on Phil's shaking thigh, and Clint wraps his arms tightly around Phil's shoulders, and it's that simple for them to go from being sharp tools to merely solid presences. 

This is real. 

Phil believes that. 

He believes it enough.


	13. Day 13, Prompt 8: Dominance/submission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is nonsexual D/S that also just happens to involve sex?

"This is something we're going to need to deal with eventually," Bruce says. 

"Hey, no," Clint says. "If it's not something you're comfortable with, we won't do it." 

"That's not really fair to the two of you," Bruce replies. "Especially because I don't think waiting is making it any better. It might actually be making it worse." 

Clint levels him with a measuring look. 

"All right," he says finally. "How do you wanna do this?" 

"I need to watch," says Bruce. "I need you to keep an eye on me. Can you do that?" 

"Yeah," says Clint. "Yeah, I can do that. If you're sure." 

"Phil is part of this now," Bruce says. "There's no taking that back. I just need to... get more comfortable with what that means." 

Phil is just watching their negotiations, satisfied to go along with whatever they decide. Because Bruce is the one who knows himself and Hulk best, and Clint is the one who brought him through those first precarious few phases of learning to trust himself with feelings like love. 

Jealousy is another beast altogether. 

Bruce settles himself cross-legged on one corner of the bed, stripped down to boxers already as if for sleep, endeavoring to keep himself as comfortable as possible. 

He won't have Clint's touch, or Phil's, to settle him today. He'll have only the knowledge that they'd want him to stay calm. 

They're starting off casual too, just underwear; they don't want to go too fast, but also none of this should be a struggle. 

They settle into each other's arms like home, kissing soft and sweet, a welcome back. They missed each other, they've been missing each other even while they've both been in bed with Bruce. 

They need this. 

Bruce breathes. 

Phil's hand runs up Clint's spine and makes the archer shiver; his lips wander across Clint's chest as if reminding himself, mapping a familiar region over again. 

Clint maneuvers Phil down onto the bed, and Bruce can hear him breathing now, rough but deep. Bruce watches as Clint mouths at Phil's neck, at his collarbones, at his scar, at his nipples. He moves lower, nosing around Phil's navel. Clint's strong arms are bracketing Phil, elbows on the sheets, and Phil has taken hold of his wrists. 

They hold each other like they have a right to each other, like well-worn, taken-for-granted possessions. 

It twinges a little, twists inside him, and Hulk takes notice, prodding at the distress. 

Bruce breathes. 

How many times must they have touched each other to get like this? How many times have they carried each other home after a battle, shared food, made conversation? 

_They're not hurting me,_ he tries to tell Hulk, but it's a lie and won't pass for anything else. _I want this._ That's truer. _Don't come out._ But he always says that. And sometimes Hulk can't bear Banner's pain, needs to stop it. 

_I will shut you down if I need to,_ and that comes lashing out unwanted; he knows it only makes Hulk more desperate to get out. _Sorry,_ follows close on that. _I'll try not to._

The apology stuns Hulk into silence, for the moment. 

Clint kisses the hollow under Phil's ribs, and then he lifts his head to look at Bruce. He sees the lingering tension of the fight. But his eyes are all confidence and determination and thanks. Bruce remembers all at once how much Clint loves him, how he would have given up all this if Bruce asked him to. He feels a little lighter. 

Clint smiles and he lowers his head again, nudging at Phil through his underwear. Phil's hands tighten on Clint's wrists, and his breathing goes shallow and uneven. "Get back up here for a minute," he tells Clint, tugging on his arms. Clint moves without thought, and Phil takes the archer's face in his hands and pulls him down for a kiss, more heated than before, deeper, with a little bit of teeth. Now Clint's breathing just as hard. "Better," Phil says. "Continue." 

Clint laughs, and he continues, peeling Phil out of his boxer briefs, running hands along his now-naked thighs and leaning in to breathe hot across his balls. 

It looks so easy, so natural, not the struggle or the carefully prepared ritual that it always has to be with Bruce. His jealousy swells up again, less specific and more simple envy, liquid and incredibly bittersweet. 

Bruce bites down on it, he breathes resolutely, but he can't close his eyes; he has to watch. This is important. Hulk doesn't understand why he has to hurt. Hulk doesn't understand why he can't just stop whatever's happening. 

Hulk wants to see, and Banner tries not to fight him. It is only their beloveds, making each other happy. Hulk likes to see when Bruce makes Clint happy, when Clint makes Bruce happy. He's realized about nervousness. But this is different. This is a worse feeling. Banner feels sick, sad. Hulk wants to stop it. 

_You can't, please, you can't,_ Banner feels at him, desperate. Hulk is making things worse. Hulk always makes things worse. Hulk doesn't understand. 

Clint's eyes snap up, going straight to Bruce's as if he sensed something in the silence. "It's okay," he says. "You're gonna be fine. Stay with me." His eyes are steady, a lifeline, even as his body is rocking into Phil's, forceful and heated and rhythmic. 

Clint is talking to Hulk, too. Hulk trusts Clint. Hulk tries to settle. 

Phil's legs are tight around Clint and his breaths are jagged things, turning to the occasional wordless exclamation as Clint thrusts particularly hard. His hands are around Clint's wrists again, like they belong there. 

Bruce and Hulk are a hopeless jumble of emotions now, good and bad, strong and uncertain. "Stay with me," Clint says again, blue eyes drilling into theirs, holding them steady. Then Clint drops his head, kissing Phil's chest and driving into him hard and fast, racing to the finish, and Bruce watches as both their faces contort with pleasure, and their bodies flex and pulse and curl into each other, and they come together, like it was meant to be. 

Bruce feels like something in him is tearing free, but the two beside him on the bed trust him to be still, to take this, so he does, he sits, full of conflicting forces, and he breathes. 

Phil's arms are wrapped tight around Clint as if he never wants to let him go. But Clint rubs his face against Phil's neck, rousing himself, and then he lifts himself off, stroking his hands down Phil's sides in a farewell before he shifts aside and turns to Bruce. 

His eyes are warm and full of awe, and Bruce is in such a jumble that he can't decide whether he wants to ask Clint to hold him or eat the archer whole, so he just stays where he set himself to stay, letting it all wash through him. 

"You did good," Clint tells him, approaching slowly and deliberately. "You did so good. Come on, c'm'ere." He opens his arms, welcoming. 

Bruce's dive towards him kind of bowls the archer over, and they roll until they're side by side wrong way round on the bed, but then Bruce just lets Clint hold him and whisper in his ear, "Love you, Bruce. Always. Nothing's gonna change that, okay? Hear me in there, Big Guy? Always yours." 

Hulk does. 

He thinks squishy humans are stupid and confusing and complicated, but he loves these ones anyway. 

All of them.


	14. Day 14, Prompt 5: Nipple play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is weirdly true (but somewhat due to Hulk precautions) that I have written approximately twelve previous smut scenes with these two helping get each other off and _Bruce has never touched Clint's nipples._ I'm pretty sure.

It's been five days of leave and Coulson is starting to itch for something productive to do, even if it's paperwork. As satisfying and useful as it is to learn the possible logistics of giving his two boyfriends great orgasms (and having some himself), as rewarding as it is to learn more about the various ways of dealing with possible Hulk incidents, and as fun as it is to take Lola out into the world to introduce Bruce to some of his favorite places in the area, and watch Clint whisper the appropriate stories in his ear - Phil Coulson has not gotten as far as he has in the SHIELD organization without loving his job. 

So he goes into HQ again to try and persuade Fury that he's not going anywhere and he might as well be doing the work that comes with the title of liaison. 

Bruce and Clint feed him breakfast and send him off with kisses, and then they sit (still only half-dressed) leaned up against each other at the breakfast bar, contemplating. 

It's not ever going to be the same without him here as it was before he came back. There's a missing piece. 

"Got me all to yourself again, huh?" Clint asks, slinging an arm around Bruce's shoulders. 

"I guess so." Bruce puts an elbow on the bar, then sets his chin in his hand, then glances over at Clint. "But it's good when he's here." 

"Don't miss this?" 

Bruce thinks, then shakes his head. "I've still got you, right?" he says, kissing Clint softly. "And somehow I find myself being less and less alone, and how can that be a bad thing?" 

"You're amazing," Clint says, and he kisses Bruce this time, "and you're perfect, and I'm so much luckier than I deserve, dunno how I even landed you." 

Bruce hums appreciatively, leaning his chin on Clint's shoulder. "You don't even know how much you've given me. Clint, if we're going to insist on counting what we've gotten from each other, I'm pretty sure I still owe you." 

Clint frowns. "You don't owe me anything," he says. 

"Good," says Bruce, smiling serenely. "Then we're square. Always. No matter what. Okay?" 

"Good deal," says Clint. "Best deal." He leans in and works his nose up under Bruce's jaw, kissing his neck. "Love you, Bruce." 

"I love you, too," Bruce replies, closing his eyes and taking in the feeling of Clint's mouth ranging across his neck. 

Clint sighs against Bruce's throat, and his fingers inch their way around Bruce's neck and up into his hair. It's a lazy morning, and they spend several minutes just soaking in each other's presence, exchanging light touches and slow, soft kisses. 

"Well, maybe I did miss this a little," Bruce murmurs, and his lips brush across Clint's ear. "Miss being so familiar with everything." His teeth just barely graze the hypersensitive place just in front of Clint's left ear that he uses as his anchor point, and Clint takes a sharp breath. Bruce kisses the spot again, closed-mouthed but firmer. "But I'll get here with Phil, eventually." 

"Bruce," Clint says, and for a moment that's all he can say, so he lets his fingers grip the hair on the back of Bruce's neck instead. "God, Bruce." 

Bruce smiles. "Did you miss just me?" 

"Yeah," Clint murmurs. "Yeah, I did." He leans in and kisses Bruce's cheek, and down to the corner of his mouth. "'Just you' is a pretty phenomenal thing to have." 

"Mmm," Bruce hums. "Glad you approve." He breathes against Clint's ear and his fingers trace up one of Clint's arms and begin to ruck up the sleeve of his tee. Clint's breath stutters again. Bruce's eyes crinkle. "Back to bed?" he asks. 

"Hmm, yeah," the archer agrees. "Bed's nice." 

They shuffle leisurely in that direction, and Clint slips his shirt off over his head to drop it on the bedroom floor. Bruce is more or less mesmerized by all the skin that reveals, and he steps up behind Clint to revel in it, one hand tracing the archer's musculature of Clint's upper back, the other wrapped around to splay across Clint's chest and hold him while Bruce takes it in. 

Bruce's hand has traced its way down to Clint's lower back and is now making its way to one of his hips, and he's kissing those amazing shoulders, and he isn't thinking much about the hand that's wrapped around Clint's chest until he moves it a little and catches one of Clint's nipples with a callused thumb, and the archer gasps. 

"Hmm," Bruce murmurs contemplatively. "I guess I don't know everything about your body yet." Because they've kissed a lot - in the early parts of their relationship, when Bruce was still paralyzed with worry over the possibility of a Hulk incident - so Bruce knows his face, neck and arms, and since they moved past that stage, Clint has gotten to know every inch of Bruce's body and every shade of reaction, but there are still parts of Clint's body that Bruce has paid far too little attention to. 

Bruce replicates the motion, paying attention as he does, to the sound of Clint's breath and the way his neck arches back just a little. He slips the other hand up Clint's ribs to join in on the other side, combines it with teeth digging lightly into the junction of neck and shoulder, and the return he gets is a broken moan, and then Clint turning around to press himself against Bruce, who is still shirtless from the night before. 

When they kiss this time it's still leisurely, but with Clint's breath harsh in his ear and the evidence of interest making itself known lower down, Bruce knows things aren't going to stay that way. 

Bruce guides him down onto the bed and straddles him, again marveling at the trust Clint has in him, and he kisses Clint again, deep and grounding, before lowering his mouth to Clint's chest and giving one nipple an experimental but thorough lick. 

Clint's whole body jumps, and his breath escapes harsh and sudden, along with the hint of a cry, and he buries his hands in Bruce's hair. "Bruce," he groans. 

"Mmmm," Bruce replies, smiling against Clint's chest. "That's interesting." 

"Yeah, I'd say that," Clint answers, panting. "You wanna maybe look into it a little more?" Bruce can hear the smile in his voice, and it's a beautiful thing. 

"Absolutely," he answers, and he does it again, this time rolling his tongue to swirl against all sides of the hardened nub. 

"Nngh," he hears this time, and he feels Clint's erection jump against his own, through the fabric of their boxers, and he leans into it a little, delivering friction there too. They both moan. 

Bruce has to catch his breath, but after a minute he returns his mouth to its business, and shifts an arm to rub at the other nipple. He flicks and presses and swirls, learning what's most effective, and then he rubs against the flesh with another prolongued swipe, harsher than the first, and the jolt that runs through Clint's body below him has him gasping for breath, pulling away and laying his cheek down for a moment against that beloved skin. 

He closes his eyes and rolls his hips, basking in the warmth they've built up between them and heightening it further. But there's no hurry, and he lowers his mouth again to kiss Clint's chest, starting at the midline and inching his way towards the second nipple, getting teasingly close but not engaging. 

"Ahh," Clint breathes, half moan, half laugh. "Brucey, do you know what you're doing to me?" 

"Think so," Bruce replies glibly, and with another brief rock of his hips, he draws attention to the unmistakeable evidence. 

Clint's next breath is almost a whimper, and his hands in Bruce's hair nudge him in the right direction. Bruce obediently moves, and places a small dry kiss right on the nipple. Clint gives another huff of laughter, and his mouth is open to say something else when Bruce gives the nub the same long, almost harsh stripe that produced such impressive results on the other side. 

Clint yells. 

Bruce grins, and as he catches his breath again he nuzzles a bit with his nose, and that produces some nice little noises, too. But his patience is running out now, and so he moves a hand down to pull the fabric aside and bring their cocks into contact. Once that's done, Bruce loses most of the rest of his composure and just rolls into Clint, rubbing the two cocks past each other and shuddering with the exquisite rightness of it. He's coming slowly undone, so it's actually Clint who wraps a hand around the both of them, holding them aligned and providing even more sensation. 

Bruce comes first, shallow thrusts slowing and breathing going harsh, but Clint's not far behind, stroking himself with his thumb as he's holding them both, other hand petting at Bruce's hair. He twitches and his dick pulses against Bruce's, and Bruce gives a long, satisfied groan and collapses across Clint. 

That was different, but very good. 

Nothing's ever going to be exactly the same as it was before, but maybe, things will just keep getting better.


	15. Day 15, Prompt 9: Double penetration

Phil being back on the job is great in some ways, but in others, it feels like it never rains but it pours. 

They've been out on two major operations in just the last week, both intelligence intensive and requiring significant coordination. Phil was on comms for the team, which was great for Clint, but exhausting for Phil. And unlike the rest of the team, Coulson's job doesn't end when they all make it home safe. He's been in and out of the tower, in meetings and filing paperwork, for what Bruce and Clint agree has been far too much of the time. 

"Come play with us," Clint whines at him as he passes through the living room, straightening his tie. 

Phil shakes his head. "I need to go in," he says. "There's still a lot of time-critical paperwork to do, intelligence coordination, ammunition requests, other stuff. It's important." 

"So is playing with us sometimes," Bruce says from beside (or rather on top of) Clint on the sofa. 

Phil has developed a resistance to Clint's pathos-laden pleas, but he has not much defense against Bruce's deep brown eyes, warm half-smile and damnably reasonable arguments. He sighs. 

"I'll come home early tonight, I promise," he says, leaning down to kiss Bruce and then Clint. "Five thirty at the latest." 

"You better," Clint says. 

"I'll make lasagna," Bruce says. His eyes sparkle. Phil knows he knows exactly what he's doing. Homemade lasagna is not only one of Phil's favorites, but it would be a tragedy to miss, what with how long it takes. 

Phil half-glares, but there's a smile dancing around the corners of his mouth. "Then I'll be here," he says. Then he leaves before they can tempt him into any more promises, or even not leaving at all. 

Bruce and Clint untangle from each other and go about their mornings, Clint training both by himself and with Natasha and Steve, and Bruce reading medical journals for a while, looking over Tony's latest files earmarked for him, and then going out for groceries. They end up back together in Bruce's kitchen (although the rest of the floor hasn't been just Bruce's in a long time, the kitchen always will be), because Clint always likes to watch Bruce cook, if he can. 

Lasagna is an exercise in patience, precision and pattern, and Bruce loves it. Meat and tomatoes start first, and once they're simmering together in a cast-iron pan, Bruce gets out zucchini, spinach and fresh basil to chop, and cheese to grate. They chat as Bruce cooks, Bruce signalling that it's welcome by opening with a question. 

"Is this kind of stress normal for Phil?" he asks. "Because he looks pretty tired to me, but my expectations could be skewed." 

Clint's mouth scrunches contemplatively. "He's pushed himself a lot harder," Clint says, not really presenting it as an answer. "Not really sure if there's any reference point you could call 'normal.' Most time I've seen 'im spend sitting still an' not doing paperwork, was at hotels after missions but before transport back to base. An' then he's usually on EBAY when there's access." 

Bruce smiles. "Hobby?" 

"He collects... things," Clint says, waving a hand vaguely. "Classic things? Apparently." 

Bruce smiles wider. "Well, I heard about the cards, of course, and there's Lola. Mostly superhero memorabilia, more car stuff?" 

Clint shrugs. "Watches, maybe?" He widens his eyes. "Why, you into that stuff too?" 

Bruce shakes his head. "Even before... the accident... I wasn't really the type to get too attached to material possessions. But my roommate Freshman year at Harvard had this huge collection of action figures, all kinds... Star Wars, mecha, even one or two of Cap. So I'm used to the jargon." 

Clint grins. "Phil'll love that." 

"So is that what he likes to do to unwind?" Bruce asks. 

"Think so," Clint says. Then his eyes go distant and thoughtful. "'Course, I only saw 'im on the job, so... got a feeling there's other stuff." He frowns. "Guess I should tell you about this. The one time we were together, before? Tough mission, then we were stuck for a week in this tiny town in Austria, no internet. An' he was wound up tight, almost as much as you used to be. Didn't take as much convincing as I expected to get 'im to let me help out." 

Bruce's hands don't break their rhythm, continuing, smooth and intentional, to grate cheese into a bowl. His expression doesn't change much, either, but Clint can see a bitter glint in his eye. 

"Sorry, shouldn't've brought it up," Clint says, looking down at the surface of the bar. 

"No, I want to know," Bruce says. "Tell me." 

Clint regards Bruce for a minute, head tilted, then he nods. "Thought it'd just be a quick blow job or somethin', but he wanted me to fuck 'im. Wasn't a new thing for him. He knew what he needed." 

Bruce nods calmly. "You can give him that again." He puts water on to boil. 

"Hey." Clint catches his eye, holds out a hand, offering contact, and Bruce takes it, listening. "I'm not leaving you out, you hear me?" Clint says. "Want you to be there too." 

Bruce gives him a tiny twist of a smile. "Not sure where exactly I'd fit in," he says, going back to the stove and stirring the sauce. "It's okay to take care of him first when he needs it." 

"I've got some ideas," Clint says with a smirk. 

Bruce returns to the rhythm of cooking, sauteeing vegetables, draining noodles, and then his favorite part, constructing the lasagna itself, laying noodles out in neat rows, spreading all three cheeses in their own separate, even layers, then the meat, vegetables, more noodles, more cheese. Patterns, precision and patience. The last of the sauce is followed by even more cheese, and then the whole thing goes in the oven, and Bruce cleans the workspace with the same meditative rhythm. Then he comes out from behind the counter, and Clint grins and pounces on him. 

"That smells amazing, Bruce," he says. "You're amazing." 

Bruce smiles and wraps his arms around Clint. Then, content, they sit down and wait for Phil. 

He arrives just as he's promised he would, five thirty exactly, and there's no question that he looks tired this time as he enters, letting go of his Agent mask and slumping against the wall before he's even gotten his jacket off. 

Clint goes to greet him as Bruce is taking the lasagna out; he gets Phil out of his jacket and shoes (in the face of mild protest, but Clint won't be deterred) before steering him towards the table, getting him into a chair and rubbing at his arms. 

"You know, I am a fully functional person with hands of my own," Phil grumbles. "I can do things for myself." His hands flit around as if they need to be doing something, but nothing's making itself known. 

"Yeah, but you don't always have to," Clint answers, and kisses his cheek. 

There's lasagna then, and conversation that's not about missions - Bruce asks Phil about his collections, and actually asks the right kinds of questions and seems genuinely interested, which is really nice for Phil. And then Clint drags him towards the bedroom, Bruce following willingly, watching with equanimity as Clint unbuttons Phil's shirt and peppers kisses across his neck, stealthily gauging his stress level. 

Phil hums with pleasure and reaches out for Bruce, and Bruce steps in to kiss Phil, hands on either side of his face, subtly rubbing at his jaw and temples, and Phil's relaxing into it bit by bit, helped by Clint taking off his shirt and rubbing along his arms again and kissing his shoulders and the scar on his back. 

Phil's content to let them do what they want with him for the moment, not even bothering to do more than hold on to Bruce's waist and kiss back. It's a sign of how tired he really is, since he usually has more to say about how things should go. They undress themselves and Phil, always being sure that one of them has got him in their arms, and then Clint gets on the bed, sitting against the headboard and beckoning Phil towards him, pulling him in and kissing him. 

Phil settles on his knees on either side of Clint's hips, and he kisses Clint back somewhat awkwardly, motions stuttering as he finally lets himself feel how much he's gotten into one of his bad ruts, one where he can't do anything except work. Bruce is kneeling behind him now and he takes hold of Phil's shoulders, squeezing them tightly before stroking firmly down his upper arms, then he grabs Phil's hips and works at his lower back with his thumbs. 

Phil squirms under the attention, almost struggling against them but he's clinging tightly to Clint now, breathing a bit roughly. Bruce wraps his arms around him, kissing his back, willing him to calm, trying to lend him strength and the settled order he's gotten so good at. Clint pulls him back into a kiss, deep and slow and grounding, the kind Bruce has come to know so well. 

Bruce is the one who lubes up his fingers and then trails them across Phil's entrance, and when that causes Phil to sag a little against Clint and let out a long breath, Bruce continues, pressing against and then pressing in, sliding a finger into Phil. There's a flutter to the muscles there, like indecision, and Bruce presses in harder, further, making the call for Phil. He watches Phil drop his head against Clint's shoulder and hold on, breathing with some measure of desperation, but also gratitude. 

Clint's fingers brush across Phil's cheek, and he's murmuring to the man between them, how they're going to take good care of him and make him feel better. 

Bruce adds a second finger, pushing and stretching carefully but forcefully, and a third, and Phil's opening up willingly enough under his hands, and then after a while a fourth, because Clint had told him what he had in mind. 

"Think you can take both of us?" Clint is asking Phil now, eager and curious. 

"Hahh," Phil breathes roughly, looking like the question is the hottest thing he's ever heard. "Yes. I want that. Both of you together, inside of me." 

Bruce works his fingers inside Phil, deep and thorough, and then he pulls them free, wiping them clean and reaching for two condoms. 

"Okay, turn around," Clint says to Phil. "Look how beautiful Bruce is when he's worked up." 

Phil is nearly shaking, but he turns, Clint helping him, and he watches as Bruce puts on his condom, quick and efficient and almost composed. Then Bruce pulls Phil towards him and kisses him, firm and hungry. 

Clint preps himself, and then he moves towards the other two, wrapping his arms around the both of them and kissing Phil's neck, and then he slips an arm between the two, supporting Phil as he slips inside. 

Phil groans long and loud and grabs at Bruce, and Clint voices appreciation as well - Phil is open and warm and well-slicked, and Clint nips at his neck in lieu of words. 

Bruce kisses Phil once more, taking in how he's gone somewhat looser, more comfortable, how he's now bending more easily into the contact. Phil's hands on him are less stiff and more wanting, welcoming, and Bruce moves in closer, tighter to his chest. "C'm'on, Bruce," Clint whispers. 

"Yes," Phil agrees. He watches Bruce, eyes sparkling with renewed life. 

Bruce's fingers dance across Phil's cock, around his balls, and find the place he's looking for. He stretches Phil again, making space for himself beside Clint, and then pushes in. 

It's intense. Bruce slides against Clint, and Clint swears and jerks up, farther into Phil, and Phil hisses and tightens slightly, which makes Bruce's hands twitch across Phil's skin. They all groan, and the vibrations of their chests travel through all parts of all three of them. They cling to each other. 

"Hnn... move," Phil gasps. 

"Yessir," Clint mumbles through his grin. Bruce starts a laugh but it turns to a loud gasp when Clint does move. 

It's an awkward, jerking prospect at first, jolting through all of them in turn before they find a rhythm, Bruce and Clint sliding past each other, Clint leaning into Phil's sweet spot, Bruce rocking against Phil's dick. 

Bruce and Phil are both breathing in great gasps, Clint shallower and tighter against Phil's neck. There are hands everywhere, Phil's on Bruce's shoulders, one of Bruce's on Phil's hip, brushing Clint's just above, Bruce's other hand clasping Clint's side, Clint's other hand wrapped around between the other two, sandwiched between Bruce's chest and Phil's. 

Bruce's face is pushed up against Phil's and he can feel the breath puffing hard and quick against his face. He pulls away, looking into those steel blue eyes; Phil's pupils are wide, and his expression awed. Bruce kisses him again, quick and breathless but firm, and he thrusts faster, disrupting the rhythm and making Clint yelp and clutch at Phil. 

Clint pants, catching his breath, and speeds up to match, fingers tightening on Phil's hip, breaths turning to grunts which escape with each impact. Phil writhes, and Bruce presses his face against Phil's neck, closing his eyes and breathing in everything about this moment, the three of them, so tangled up in each other, so close. 

Clint's hand spasms between the other two, and finds its way down to Phil's cock, stuttering, grasping, and finally squeezing, and Phil jerks and gasps, tightening around them. 

Phil surrenders completely, surrounded and opened and pushed to the brink. His mouth falls open, and he shudders, coming into Clint's hand, arching and then going limp. 

He's a warm weight between them as they thrust against each other, and Bruce feels that weight in his arms, trusting, relaxed, and he's overcome. Bruce pulls in tighter to the other two, tight as he can, and he thrusts once more, and he comes as well. 

Clint follows just a breath after, groaning into Phil's neck, and for a moment all three are suspended in one perfect silence, one cessation of breath, both deep and bright. 

Then Bruce hums and draws back a little, slipping out of Phil, and Clint sits back on his feet, cradling Phil in his arms as he goes, and he lowers them both to lean against the pillows at the head of the bed where Bruce joins them, and they lie in an exhausted heap, Phil in the middle, breathing deeply and perfectly empty of anything resembling business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, halfway done! Fifteen chapters in fifteen days! And I think this chapter may be trying to tell me something? That I'm overworked? Maybe like... that I've been writing too much smut and I should take a break? 
> 
> ...Naah.


	16. Day 16, Prompt 25: Sensory deprivation

"I never thought I'd find myself here," Bruce says contemplatively over his food. "I'm not worried every second that I'm going to go out of control. I can be with the two of you, in so many ways, and it's not an issue. It's more than I ever thought I'd have again." 

Clint looks up from where he's been in deep appreciation of Bruce's oven-fried potatoes, and frowns. "That sounds ominously like there's going to be a 'but' somewhere in it," he says. "What's worryin' you?" 

"Things can't keep being this smooth," Bruce says. "I haven't been getting particularly worried or stressed or angry about anything. Which is great. But that won't last forever, and sooner or later something's going to provoke me, I'm going to have an incident or a near-incident and I just want you guys to be ready for it when it comes. Don't let your guard down too much. I might be having a really good year. But I'm still dangerous." 

Phil nods, all business. "That's not something I'm likely to forget, Bruce. Dealing with people who are potentially very dangerous is what I do." But then he puts a hand over Bruce's on the table. "I understand the risks. But believe me when I say that being around you? Probably some of the safest time I've ever spent." 

Clint snorts. "Not sure if that's really sayin' much, Sir," he quips. 

Bruce shakes his head. "You can't possibly understand, if that's what you think. The Hulk's been cooperative, but if something happens and he ends up angry and disoriented and hurting, you'll see a completely different side of him." 

"If that happens, we'll deal with it," Clint insists. "It's what we do." 

"But it doesn't hurt to be as prepared as possible," Phil says, shooting a bit of a glare at Clint before looking at Bruce again with an open expression. "Is there anything you need? Anything you want us to do to make sure we're more prepared if and when that circumstance does arise?" 

Bruce is very grateful for that serious regard and the stable feel of Phil's hand around his. He thinks. "I mostly just wanted to hear you both say that you're still keeping it in mind. But if worse comes to worst..." Bruce sighs. "Clint has been able to get through to the Hulk while he's at least a little bit worked up. He's not so great with words, but he can respond well to touch. I'd rather you not resort to that unless there's no other choice; there's no guarantee it would work under more extreme circumstances. But it's something that you should probably know." Bruce frowns. "Although we aren't quite as familiar with you as we are with Clint, so please don't test that unnecessarily." 

Phil just smiles a little. "Maybe there's something we can do to improve my chances?" he says. 

Bruce looks dubious. "It's mostly a question of getting familiar with the feeling of you touching us, I think, and we're doing pretty much of that already. But it could take a while, for me, because I'm mostly more attuned to visuals and words...." Bruce trails off thoughtfully. 

Clint smiles as he looks between the two of them. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it:" he says smugly. "Blindfold Bruce Banner and spend as much time as possible touching him." 

"Sounds like a two-man job to me," Phil replies, eyes glinting as he glances at Clint. Then he looks back to Bruce. "If that's something you'd be interested in." 

"Yeah," Bruce replies, squeezing Phil's hand. "That sounds... good. Sounds nice. Could be useful. And I trust you." 

That phrase makes Phil's face truly light up. "Glad to hear it," he says. He squeezes Bruce's hand one more time before letting it go. "After dinner?" he suggests. 

After dinner they settle into bed, Bruce laying on his back in the center, naked except for a strip of dark fabric across his eyes. It's not tied tight and he can still see a little if he looks down, he can pull it off easily, but the lights are low and he won't be tempted to follow them with his eyes the way he otherwise might. 

They've agreed to keep speech to a minimum, another distraction, like sight. 

Clint begins, as he often does, by wrapping a hand around the back of Bruce's neck and then kissing him; Bruce actually doesn't know how it would be possible to know Clint's touch better than he does. It's a pull and a push and a waiting, a silent focus on the task at hand. It's the touch he's loved since the beginning of all this. 

Clint draws back again, kissing down along Bruce's arm and then putting a hand in his, grounding and waiting. Then Phil touches down, light but deliberate kisses across Bruce's shoulder leading across his collarbone and down to the center of his chest, over his heart, and that is Phil, isn't it, to want to go straight to the crux of the matter as soon as is practical. 

Phil's hands trace along the lines of Bruce's body, and there's admiration, almost awe in the way those hands are slow and careful, gentle, and if Bruce had any doubts still about Phil only being here because of Clint, they're quickly fading. Bruce's body is (to all appearances) just another body; it's not exquisitely sculpted like Clint's or precisely honed and trained, like Phil's. And yet Phil's fingers skim across his abdomen worshipfully, trace his jaw and lips with fascination, thread their way down one arm with the most perfect care. 

Phil is a collector, and he treasures his possessions, which is a thought that bothers Bruce substantially less than it might, considering the other people that have claimed him as property. Considering, also, that Phil is one of those government employees who have so persistently tracked him across the world. But Phil is different. He respects not just the danger of Hulk, but the rights of Bruce, his volition and his worth. These are hands that would not do harm unless absolutely necessary; these are hands that have one purpose, to protect. 

One of Phil's hands, on Bruce's face, shifts, and then Phil is kissing his lips. The kiss is precise and dry at first, but not ending, instead shifting by degrees into something warmer, more determined. 

As the kiss deepens, Bruce can feel Clint's hand move in his, beginning to rejoin the dance that is the three of them; Clint's hands are brasher, though no less careful, and they move across Bruce's body with confidence, brushing a nipple, roaming up his neck to settle over Phil's on his face. Then Phil pulls back from his mouth and Bruce hears the two of them kissing, just above him, quiet hints but well-known, interrupted breath and the separation and joining of wet planes of skin. 

Clint's mouth is on Bruce's, next, warm and affectionate and thorough, and Phil's hand slips out from under Clint's and down Bruce's neck. Phil's hands slide lower and lower, down his sides to his hips, and he pauses to kiss Bruce's hipbone, three times in three slightly different places, forming a line, enough to pique interest but not enough to touch on the tension of arousal. His hands move lower, down Bruce's thighs to his knees, where they curl around and explore. 

Phil's hands go everywhere with equal interest and patience; down to his feet, along the tops, encircling his toes and then tracing down the outside of his soles with his thumbs. This is about knowing each other, and Bruce can tell from every move of Phil's against his skin that that's important to Phil, that he's committed to it. 

Clint is mouthing at Bruce's neck now, and Bruce has lifted one hand to Clint's shoulder, letting himself get caught up in the feel of Clint's kisses and letting himself learn Phil's touch as a comforting, incidental thing that can be secondary to whatever's claiming his attention. 

Bruce lets Hulk into his skin, not to control but just to feel, inviting him to feel everything about how their beloveds touch them. Hulk is quiet and wondering and grateful; he's truly beginning to trust Banner to decide which of them should be present in their body and how much. And this is the best thing that Hulk has ever felt; he tries to be as present as possible for it without jostling Banner's stillness, but he doesn't quite manage, and they twitch, and they feel Clint smile against their neck, amused. Clint has learned to tell when Hulk is there, touching him too. Clint hums in greeting, and keeps kissing. 

Phil has made his way up Bruce's legs again, and he's now making a more thorough exploration of the planes of Bruce's abdomen, mostly hands and a few kisses. He's slowly curving back down, and Bruce's pure pleasure at being touched with care is beginning to gain that edge, that ragged dynamic of desire. 

Phil's hands explore further, running down from Bruce's belly into the hair below, following along the inner thigh, and very delicately, very gently, stroking across his balls. Bruce takes a great heaving breath and then he pulls Clint up from where he's been kissing his collarbones to kiss his mouth, needing to express somehow how good all this is, and today's not quite a day for words. So he kisses Clint needily, gratefully, groaning into his mouth when Phil takes the final inevitable step and traces careful fingers up Bruce's cock. 

That only lasts a moment, though, and then there is likely some communication between the two above him, because Clint draws away from his mouth, too. Bruce can't stop a whine escaping, but then Phil's hands are sliding up his chest and along his neck and into his hair, and Phil is kissing him, deeper and more exploratory than before. And Clint, Clint is kissing his thighs, kissing his balls, nosing his way toward's Bruce's dick with sure determination. 

Phil's hands are still moving slowly and steadily, exploring Bruce's hair, tracing his ears, then running back down his neck to his shoulders, seemingly cataloguing everything even as his tongue presses into Bruce's mouth. 

There's no mistaking which of them is where - they're distinct in the way they touch him, but both wonderful. The hand on his belly now is Clint's, reaching and pressing as Clint takes Bruce's cock into his mouth, claiming and surrounding him where Phil's touch was simply curious and appreciative. 

Bruce fights to keep even and not shut Hulk out of this, because this is for him, after all, a primer on the hands and mouths of their beloveds. Banner understands them with his eyes and his words but Hulk can only grok in more direct, more fundamental terms. These motions are what they feel like; these caresses are how much they care; the rightness of this means home, and safety. Hulk knows them. 

Bruce reaches for Phil, wrapping him in his arms and learning him by feel, the slight but ever-present guarded tension of his muscles, the awareness and reactivity that characterizes his movements. It's perceptible even through the haze of pleasure that Clint's mouth and hands are drawing and sucking out of him. Phil is kissing him lightly now, and Bruce can't see his face but he feels those eyes on him, those incisive steel-colored eyes; for Bruce, this is a reminder of all the things he already knows about his lovers, a confirmation of the validity of his own instincts, or of Hulk's. 

He grips Phil tightly as Clint takes him deeper, pressing a palm up against his balls, and Bruce feels like everything he is is in his skin, all his awareness, all his thoughts, all his wants and fears. He and Hulk meet there, one for just this moment, all in agreement of the perfection of this moment and their love for these two men. 

Clint's tongue presses against him and Phil's hands cradle his neck as his kisses move to Bruce's jaw and throat, and Bruce cries out, eyes snapping open on dark void, hands grasping at Phil and legs flexing against Clint's sides. Warmth floods him as both their mouths press simultaneously at sensitive flesh, and he's breathing into the darkness and spilling into Clint's mouth and holding onto Phil as if he's the one solid point in a universe suddenly without gravity. 

"Phil," Bruce breathes, the first and most perfect interruption of the wordless silence. 

There is no answer except the drag of fingers against his scalp and a kiss to the edge of his chin, but that says everything; that says he is valuable and wanted and cherished and kept. 

Clint swallows and pulls away and lays his cheek against Bruce's hip, and they lie there for a long time, simply touching, absorbing each other. 

Right now, that's the most important thing in the world.


	17. Day 17, Prompt 14: Genderswap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite late and quite long (4k+). Also this is not technically _genderswap._ It is a reversal of _physical sex characteristics only._ Male pronouns and identity are maintained throughout. Just want to make sure I acknowledge that.

Loki is back. 

There's a lot of swearing and a lot of scrambling to get armed and in defensible positions but in the end it turns out that there's really no such thing as a defensible psition from Loki, especially in the Tower, a place he learned the layout of fairly well the last time he was here. 

Tony's caught off guard in his workshop, first, the part of the residential section that's least changed. No one can raise him on comms. 

Steve and Natasha are in the gym, and Loki comes to visit them next, blasting them both with green light and disappearing again. 

Phil's got his comm in his ear and is talking to Natasha, who tells him that Steve seems to have been turned into a small boy. Nat doesn't know how Loki's magic has affected her yet. 

Phil, Clint and Bruce were in the restructured common area when he appeared, the TV lounge, the only place where the floor levels are changed as well as the layouts, and now they're bunched together on the landing at the top of the stairs down to the big living room, Clint crouched behind the railing with his gun out, scanning the room, Bruce behind him, and Phil standing and speaking quickly and efficiently into his earpiece. 

Loki appears below them, looking around the room, but not finding them until one of Clint's bullets bounces off his energy field. Then he looks up at the three of them, smiling oddly. 

"Loki of Asgard," Phil greets calmly. "What do you want?" 

"I think it might be best explained as... some manner of revenge," Loki replies. 

Clint takes another shot. The shield stops it again. 

"Please, Agent Barton," Loki says. "You know very well you won't be able to hit me, not now that I am once again at the height of my power." 

"Yeah," Clint replies, "but it makes me feel a hell of a lot better to be aiming at you when I pull the trigger." 

Loki nods once, regally, granting the point. Then he makes his way to the stairs, approaching them. 

Bruce breathes deeply, remembering that for the moment, they don't know what Loki's up to, and Steve might soon be in need of his expertise. 

Loki locks eyes with Phil. He frowns, considering. "You, I think, I owe nothing. We are even. A blow for a blow." Then he turns on Clint, and Bruce can't stop his pulse rate from increasing slightly. Loki narrows his eyes. "And you... the same, perhaps. Or close enough." He looks at Bruce. "But you," the Asgardian says, voice grinding, "you humiliated me. And you will pay for that." He gestures at Bruce, and there's another flash of light. 

Bruce feels odd. Loki smiles at him. "Yes, I think that should do nicely," he says, and vanishes. 

Clint scans the room while Phil looks down at Bruce, concerned. There's something... unsettled in his eyes. He speaks into his headset. "Jarvis, are you there? Do you have eyes on Stark?" 

Jarvis's voice sounds through the room's speakers. "I do, agent Coulson. Physically, he seems unharmed, but he is in some distress, and I cannot understand him when he speaks." There is a pause. "On the positive side, I can no longer detect Loki or his energy signature anywhere in the tower. I have contacted Miss Potts, and she will be here in approximately twenty minutes." 

Phil nods, knowing the AI's cameras will see it. 

Meanwhile Clint has lowered his gun and turned to look at Bruce. The archer's eyes widen. "Holy shit," he says, the swear contained, but fervent. "Bruce?" 

"Yes?" Bruce answers, and his voice in his own ears is oddly high and clear-toned, and he wonders for a moment if he's been made younger, like Steve. But when he looks down, he sees that that's not quite the case. 

He's not smaller, in fact his hips are wider; his hands are slightly smaller, though, and... "Holy shit," he echoes quietly. He prods at his chest curiously. 

Then he gives himself a quick once-over. Everything seems to be... intact, if slightly changed, mostly in the department of primary and secondary sex characteristics. He stands, pushing away his confusion and distress and focusing on where he might be needed. 

"Jarvis, how's Steve?" he asks. 

There's a pause. "I'm afraid your voiceprint is not registered among those with access to that data," the AI replies. 

"Widow says he seems fine," Phil answers, listening to his earpiece. "She's going to keep an eye on him." 

"J, it's me," Bruce says, trying to keep calm. "Dr. Banner." He recites an authorization code for one of his own most secret files, all greek letters and mnemonic reminders, followed by the last three words of the file. "Now will you let me see Tony? Although I'm not all that sure that seeing me walk into his workshop right now is going to be all that reassuring. But I'd like to at least look him over." 

"My apologies, Doctor Banner. A second voice print has been added to your file. And I encourage you to do what you can for my creator. He is becoming increasingly agitated at his seeming inability to read any of his computer interfaces." 

Bruce winces. "Ouch," he says. His strangely high voice is just odd. He looks at the other two. 

"I'll rendezvous with Widow and the Captain," Phil says. "Barton, you go with Bruce." 

Clint nods. "Tony could probably use at least one familiar face." He manages an unhappy smirk. 

Phil heads down the stairs, since the gym is only a couple of floors down, and Bruce and Clint go back through the lounge to the elevator and up to Tony's workshop. 

Tony's head snaps up at the motion of the elevator doors, and he peers at them as they step out, Clint first, who Tony looks on with frank relief, and then Bruce, who draws stares of confusion. Bruce looks back with an apologetic frown, and he watches Tony's eyes widen as he takes in the unchanged clothes, baggy shirt even baggier and hiding the changes there, but pants filled out at the hips (and he is thanking the powers that be that he never got out of the habit of choosing pants based on their ability to survive transformations to larger forms). 

Bruce catches Tony's eye and he taps his passcode into the panel next to the glass door. It opens for him, and Tony looks hopefully at the two. But garbled syllables come out of his mouth. Bruce looks apologetic again. "I'm sorry," he says in reply. "I can't understand you. Can you understand anything I'm saying?" 

Tony's face becomes a portrait of aggravation, and he flings his arms wide before tangling his fingers in his hair, looking perilously close to tearing it out. 

"Okay, okay," Bruce says, holding up his hands placatingly. "I'm guessing you'll want to know what happened to the others?" He finds a screen and taps into the video feeds, bringing up live footage of the gym, where Phil, Natasha and a small blond boy swimming in Army sweats are sitting and talking together. Bruce turns to see his reaction. There's some relief, but Tony still looks Very Not Happy. 

Bruce gets it. If he didn't have his work to keep him sane, some days would just be hell. 

Tony looks spitting mad for another second, and then he looks determined, and then he looks curiously from Bruce to Clint and back again. 

Bruce returns the look darkly. "We are not going to give you a show just because you apparently can't do anything useful right now," he tells Tony. 

Tony must read the look and the tone, because he laughs and then waves a hand dismissively. He looks frustrated for another minute. 

"Well, but you are pretty cute," Clint says, looking at Bruce, "and I think right now the priority may be 'stop Tony Stark from going out of his mind with boredom and building a huge bomb that might kill us all.'" 

Bruce wrinkles his nose. "What _do_ I look like, really?" he wonders aloud. He brings up live feed from one of the lab cameras... and he stares. He pushes his glasses up his (slightly smaller) nose and turns his head to look at the lines of his face and (significantly smaller) shoulders. His hair is the same, dark and curling short over his face. But the face.... 

It's his face, but with so many little changes. The jaw is softer, no stubble, brow rounder... it's unsettling. Bruce has nightmares about his body warping, turning strange and twisted and uncontrolled.... 

"Hey," Clint says, putting a hand on his shoulder; it envelops his shoulder in a way it never has, but it's Clint's hand, and it focuses him. "Bruce. You all right?" 

Bruce breathes, and he settles into Clint's side. It's different, but Clint's the same. "Not exactly," he tells Clint. 

"Hmm," says Clint. "You're still you, right? Everything works? Hulk behaving?" 

"More or less," Bruce says. "I'm the one who's not handling this." 

"We're gonna get through this, all right?" Clint says, pulling Bruce closer. He leans down (more than usual) to kiss Bruce, and it's firm and focusing and right, for a moment everything's right. 

Bruce can see Tony looking at them with a smirk, but he knows Tony Stark well enough to read the longing behind it, and he doesn't actually begrudge the man gawking at their kisses. 

Then Pepper comes in and rushes to Tony, saying, "Oh my God, Tony, are you okay? Jarvis told me..." and she goes on, and he chatters right back, as if they can understand each other perfectly, and Bruce's theory that they communicate mostly through tone of voice anyway is confirmed. 

Clint looks down at Bruce. "Think we can leave this to Pepper for now," he says. 

Bruce nods. "Jarvis can tell us if there's anything we can do," he agrees. He waves in Tony's direction, and Tony waves back absently, deep in nonsensical conversation. 

As they're walking the single flight to Bruce's usual workspace, Clint calls Phil to let him know the situation. "Phil's gonna meet us in your lab," he tells Bruce. "Nat's, uh, been compromised, and for reasons, she doesn't especially wanna be around agents right now? But she's good with looking out for Steve. Steve's mostly... nine." 

"No symptoms of the medical problems he had at that age the first time around?" Bruce asks. 

"Nope," Phil says, rounding the corner from the elevator. "Perfectly healthy little kid. Apparently Loki said something about revenge for 'being condescended to'," he told them. Then he looks at Bruce. "How are you holding up?" he asks. 

"No imminent danger yet," Bruce answers, looking down at his strangely small hands. 

"That's not what I asked," Phil says gently. 

Bruce looks up into the utterly solid gaze of those eyes, and he sighs. "You ever have days where you can't decide whether everything's fine or you're living something out of your nightmares?" 

"Way too often, since the last time I was face to face with Loki," Phil says, nodding grimly. 

Bruce closes his eyes, remembering some of the things Phil has said about his body being unfamiliar since he was brought back from the brink of death. "Of course," he says. 

"Bruce," Phil says, approaching. "What do you need?" 

Bruce shakes his head. "I need my normal baselines back," he says. "But that's not happening. I need work. I need distractions." He goes to his medical workstation, taking out a length of tubing, a needle and a sterilizing swab and preparing to take a blood sample with practiced motions. He sticks himself, then swears, quiet and tight. "Smaller veins," he mutters. He breathes carefully, peers at his elbow, and tries again. This time it works, and the tube fills with blood. 

He wipes the wounds, seals them with cyanoacrylate, and throws his cotton ball and used needle into biohazard containment. He fills small testing containers with blood and inserts them in the appropriate machines. Then he takes a cheek swab from himself, puts it on a slide, preparing to make a karyotype. The chemicals and stains he adds are special concoctions of his own that make the process much faster. 

He sends the resulting images to Jarvis, who sorts them, and then Bruce blinks at the results. 

"I'm XX," he says. "These are not superficial changes." He slumps over his workbench. 

Clint comes over, rubbing at Bruce's shoulders. "Okay, Brucey," he says. "Think it's time for a break." 

Bruce blinks up at him. "But I haven't even started the radiological analysis, and the molecular tests are...." Bruce yawns hugely. "What time is it?" he asks. 

"Past midnight," Phil answers. "You can continue this tomorrow. For now, let's go home." 

Bruce follows them home, admittedly exhausted, and they bundle him into bed, curling in on either side of him. 

He's far too tense to sleep. He knows this mood. He's gone to sleep like this and had nightmares and woken up green. 

"This isn't going to work," he tells them. He watches his small hands knit themselves together in agitation. 

"Yeah," Clint says, "I kinda figured." His hand finds Bruce's shoulder and squeezes, highlighting the tension there. Then he pulls Bruce into a kiss, wrapping him up tight in his solid archer's arms. 

It's almost, almost like normal, until Clint slides a hand under his shirt and cups one of his breasts. Bruce blinks and pulls away. He rubs at his face. 

"This is going to be weird," Bruce mumbles into his hands. 

"Not for me," Clint replies. "You're my Bruce, no matter what shape you are, 'kay?" He looks to Phil for support. But Phil can't quite meet Clint's eye. 

"Bruce," says Phil, "you're very important to me, and I'll do everything I can for you, but you should know that I'm a pretty solid five on the Kinsey scale." 

"Oh," says Bruce, looking down at himself, then back at Phil. "That's okay," he says, and he hates the way his current high, clear voice reveals itself with every wobble. 

Phil catches Bruce's face between his hands. "Hey, Bruce, no, I'm here," he says. "I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere. I just wanted you to know, in case it doesn't seem like I'm enjoying myself... but it's worthwhile, any time spent with you, all right? It's part of the deal, with superheroes. Sometimes things get nuts." Phil looks into the distance, thoughtful, and finding a tiny, self-mocking smile. Then he looks down at Bruce again. "I'm also worried my lack of expertise in this area might show if I'm called upon to provide certain aspects of the experience." 

Bruce at last relaxes enough to smile at that. 

"It can get a bit more tricky," Clint concedes. "More of a four myself, but I'm pretty sure I got this." 

Bruce is pondering now. "Out of the three of us, have I actually had the most sex with women?" 

Clint shrugs. "'S possible." 

"Only two people, but one of those was three times a week on average for six years," Bruce reveals. 

Clint blows out a breath. "Yeah, that is more. Actually kinda jealous of her right now. That's a lotta Bruce time. You cook for her too?" 

"Actually that's more something I learned on the run," Bruce answers. "At Culver, we ate so much pizza, the owner of our favorite place got worried if we didn't show up for a few days." 

Clint smiles. "Nice," he says. "Never been in one place that long for anyone to think of me like that." He traces the slimmer lines of Bruce's torso through his tee, sticking to the ribs and waist this time. 

"We're making a good start," says Bruce. 

"Yeah," Clint agrees. "You up for this?" he asks Bruce. 

"You know I'm not going to sleep otherwise," Bruce answers. 

"Not even remotely my question," Clint grumbles. "You wanna just zone out for a while, have a massage, watch reruns of Dog Cops with the volume down, hell, play cards, we're not gonna make you sleep, just rest, okay? You make the call." 

"I'm not going to be able to relax until I can wrap my head around this, establish some new baselines," he groans. 

"You need to know what's different," Phil says quietly. "I get that. I really do." He rubs at Bruce's arm and shoulder. "But it would be nice to know you actually want this, too." 

Bruce closes his eyes, and he breathes. "Okay, yes," he says. He raises a hand to each of their shoulders. "I want this." 

Clint nods. He slides a hand behind Bruce's head, fingers fluffing the familiar short wavy hairs there. He lowers his head to kiss at Bruce's neck, and his other hand runs along Bruce's ribs, still over his shirt, moving more carefully this time to cup one of the breasts that are the cause of so much of Bruce's consternation. 

Bruce tries to breathe evenly, which is a challenge, as much because these sensations are so new and interesting as from the anxiety he's been feeling. Bruce closes his eyes again, focusing in on the familiarity of Clint's touch, then giving attention to the differences in his own body. 

Clint's hand is gently moving against his breast, thumb teasing the nipple through the fabric, and his lips are sliding, subtly too smoothly, along the line of his jaw. Bruce's hand is still clasped around Clint's shoulder, and he grips it more tightly, as if to steady himself. He relearns the feeling of Clint's mouth on his throat, settles into it like a slightly too-hot bath, inch by inch, wary, but inevitably melting into the sensation. That much he can take. 

The hand pressing against his too-soft chest is still strange, and he tunes into that next, registering the way his skin molds to the shape of Clint's hand, the way his nipple gives and moves and then hardens with Clint's touch, but remains floating in a soft and amorphous stretch of flesh. 

It's truly fascinating. 

And it's causing heat to flood... lower, where things are very different. Bruce's hand tightens on Clint's shoulder again. He's losing ground, thrown and panicking. 

Phil's hand touches down on his forehead, combing back into the hair on the top of his head, steady and slow and measured and sure. "Bruce," he murmurs. "It's okay." 

And it is. With Phil's fingers running across his scalp and his absolutely steady grey-blue eyes on Bruce's, it's easier to let things go, it's easier to believe that things will go smoothly. Bruce relaxes into the sensation, and he gives Phil a small smile, which Phil returns. 

Clint's pulled back now, one hand still on Bruce's neck and the other fallen back to his ribs, watching for his next cue. But his hands don't cease their motion, the one on Bruce's torso curling around and back in soothing circular motions and the hand at his neck rubbing gently through his hair. Bruce smiles up at him now, and his hand moves from Clint's shoulder to his neck, pulling him down to another kiss. 

Hulk doesn't like this new flavor of anxiety, but he's learned to stop and consider and communicate, especially when Bruce's beloveds' hands are on them. Hulk looks out, Bruce's eyes pulse green, and Hulk sees them there and no threat, and he grumbles at Banner for worrying. 

Bruce settles into the kiss, settles into the familiar gentle pull that is Clint and the stable calm that is Phil, and tries to work through this jarring difference one step at a time. Arousal has many of the same elements, but the way it settles deeply in the area of the anterior of the pelvis is new, a deep almost-ache that doesn't radiate out to another focus. 

"You're thinkin' a lot," Clint comments, but with a smile. 

"It's thought-provoking," Bruce says breathily. He nuzzles at Clint's face and neck, paying special attention to that one spot in front of Clint's left ear that always makes his breath hitch. Clint nearly purrs. 

"What d'you want, baby?" he murmurs in Bruce's ear. He's obviously enjoying this, but he has his usual well-leashed patience, and his hand doesn't so much as move an inch up or down from its comforting circle across Bruce's ribs. 

"Mmm," Bruce murmurs as he formulates an answer. Instead of words, though, he opts to reach down and hitch up the hem of his own shirt from under Clint's hand, until that steady circle is against smooth skin. Bruce settles into that, again feeling the difference that a lack of hair makes, again surrendering to the strangely-shaped wave of warmth, and he feels slightly lightheaded but both Clint's fingers at his neck and Phil's fingers drifting across his crown ground him, and his increased rate of breathing is mostly appreciation. 

He hitches the tee up his chest further, off of those alien breasts, and Clint carefully follows the cue, and his fingers drift up and across the softer stretch of skin, rubbing the nipple between them, and Bruce shivers. 

Clint smiles smugly, and spreads his fingers again, cupping the soft flesh and squeezing lightly. When that gets a positive reception he moves on to the other side, enveloping the whole breast first here before giving attention to the second nipple. 

Bruce breathes and takes in the feel of it, head arched back and hand gripping Clint's neck, and it is wonderful, but he is ready (at last) to move on. Eager to find out what else this body can feel. 

"Okay," Bruce murmurs. "Lower. Slowly." 

"You got it," answers Clint, and his fingers begin to drift downwards, back and forth across Bruce's smooth pale skin to his bellybutton. Then Clint lays his hand down flat there for a moment while he kisses Bruce again. 

The warmth intensifies. 

Clint's hand moves again, drifting below the waist of Bruce's boxers, searching through the thick hair to find its goal. The warmth feels as if it's trying to crawl up to meet Clint's hand and Bruce whines, and then spends half a moment being startled by the sound he just made until Phil's lips are near his ear, shushing, reassuring. 

Bruce reaches out a hand in Phil's direction and Phil grabs it up in his own, running a thumb over the knuckles, and he continues to whisper soothing things in Bruce's ear. 

Bruce clings to both his lovers as Clint's fingers press lower, weaving slow circles and figure-eights just above the clit, and Bruce makes a longer, lower noise this time, and he lets the sound of his own voice wash over him with everything else, sharp and startling and exquisite. 

"Oh, wow," Clint says. "Brucey, the _sounds_ you make. Always good but hearing 'em in a whole different way right now." His voice is ragged and his mouth is close against Bruce's jaw. His fingers continue to move steadily in their patterns, drifting lower by fractions of an inch, pressure increasing ever-so-slightly. 

"Clint," Bruce breathes, high and wanting. " _More._ " 

Clint hums good humoredly against his cheek. He presses harder, broadening the circle that his fingers trace. Bruce gasps, sobs, and groans deep and rich. 

"Shit, Bruce, _shit,_ " Clint says fervently. "You know how much I wanna be in you right now?" 

Bruce tightens his hand on Clint's shoulder while he's trying to find the words to answer. "Mmm," he hums, still working on words. "Yes. Do that." 

Clint groans, then he says, somewhat breathlessly, "Soon. Wanna scout ahead at least a little." His fingers slip lower, into slick wet uncharted depths, even as his thumb remains on Bruce's clit, pressing in circles. His first two fingers slide up the back of the pelvic bone, searching, and then for a moment it feels as if the only thing between Clint's thumb and fingers is heat and pressure and pleasure, rather than flesh and bone. Another high, sweet sob escapes Bruce. 

Clint breathes raggedly against Bruce's neck, then he pulls back enough to look at Bruce's face, kiss him briefly but firmly. "Okay," he says between breaths. "Gonna go get set, but Phil has you, okay?" 

Bruce squeezes his shoulder in acknowledgement, then lets go. The hand withdraws from Bruce's pelvis, then the other from his neck, but Phil's hand is still in his, and he holds it tightly, breathing shallow. He watches as Clint puts on a condom and then strips Bruce of his boxers, settling between his legs. 

Phil's hand in his hair has found its way down to replace Clint's at his neck, and he kisses Bruce's cheek, offering comfort and stability. 

Clint bends over Bruce, kissing his neck and chest, and he returns his thumb to that crucial spot to press and play and circle, and then he slides into Bruce. 

He's inside out, or outside in - anyway, Clint is inside him and it's even more effortless than usual, a smooth slide with no obstructions, and there's a whole highway, it feels like, of sensitivity and fire starting where Clint's thumb presses against him and running down to somewhere deep inside, close to where Clint's flesh runs slick against his. For a moment he can only blink and feel and take in the sensations, but after a few moments he's got memory connected to need connected to logistics, and he lifts one knee to curl around Clint's side, changing the angle just slightly. 

And. 

Suddenly Clint's thrusts are shocks of earthquake proportions, raw impacts that go straight to the core of him. Bruce's leg tightens around him, his hand tightens on Phil's, and he moans, a great deep wrenching noise, a declaration of pleasure unlike anything he has felt. 

Even as he's feeling as if he might twist apart with the new and awesome force of it, Phil leans over him and kisses him, pressing into his mouth with force and conviction, filling up a last piece of the puzzle so that Bruce is flooded with pleasure. 

This, this is right, this is thoroughly right, and this is all he needs to know. 

But there's one last difference to catalogue, because instead of breaking the wave of pleasure rolls on, continues as Clint fucks into him, as Phil kisses him. Bruce arches and writhes and whimpers into the kiss, and it just keeps going, saturating farther and farther into his every cell, until finally every piece of him is full to the point of immobility and he falls back, gasping, still deep in the feel of Clint inside him and Phil's gentle mouth against his own. 

Clint is breathing very hard now, and he's bent low over Bruce's chest, quick jerky thrusts going irregular. Bruce uses his leg to pull Clint in tight against him, and Clint's face tenses and loosens and he moans, quiet but intense, and he pulses inside of Bruce and Bruce pulls him in even tighter, both legs and his free arm now holding him close. 

It's a different quality of calm emptiness that he feels now as well, but it's more than sufficient, and it isn't long before he's drifted into a deep sleep, wrapped in the arms of his lovers. 

And when they wake, everything is as if Loki was never here.


	18. Day 18, Prompt 24: Roleplaying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut today, just some Hulky fluff inspired very roughly by the prompt. Like, _very_ roughly. I don't even know.

Bruce has finally gotten comfortable with the idea that he can trust the Hulk, that his alter ego is learning quickly how to listen to the team and even Bruce, and that things aren't nearly as precarious between them now as they were the last time circumstances turned Hulk violent and intransigent. 

That doesn't mean it won't happen again; alien magic that amplifies negative emotions will always be their weakness. But somewhere between the fiftieth time reminding Clint that none of what he did while under Loki's mind control was his fault, and the twentieth time having a calm and reasonable internal conversation with Hulk, the connection clicks for him, and the remaining knot of reservations he's had about letting the Other Guy out regularly loosens and dissolves. 

A few days later, he comes down to the gym to get his boyfriends, but he finds them sparring, circling around each other and blocking and dodging each other's blows. He hasn't really been interested in combat techniques up until now, but this is beautiful, the precision instruments of those two bodies honing themselves against each other, being put to the test. 

Hulk looks out too, and he gets the concept of training now, that they are playing with each other to get better at battle, but he still gets a bit frustrated that he can't see properly how they do it. So Bruce shucks off his tee and gives Hulk the reins. 

It's not an unconsidered decision, but it is rather spur-of-the-moment, and Clint goes a little wide-eyed when he sees the great green face peering intently at them. He gets distracted, and goes down. But once he lands, he's beaming, and Phil turns to see what he's grinning about. 

Phil's eyes widen fractionally, which is impressive. 

"Heya, Hulk," Clint says conversationally. "What'cha up to?" 

"Hulk watch," the giant replies. "Go again." 

"Sure there's nothing you need?" Phil asks, his composure solidifying once more, and when Hulk shakes his great green head, Phil turns his back to Hulk, returning his attention to Clint. "Again?" he asks. 

"Yeah," Clint says, still smiling from ear to ear. "Can't disappoint the Big Guy." 

And so they begin again, and if their style this time is a little wider, a little flashier, who can blame them? 

Hulk watches them with the eye of one who has never had to use any tool but brute force, but he is aware that the rest of his team fights using tickly little thoughts he doesn't understand, hitting at the right time in the right place with the right weapon, so even their puny little fists crack the enemy to pieces. They are fast and clever, and he admires them. 

The focus Clint and Phil have on each other is different than the kind of focus either of them graces Bruce with. It's sharp and predictive, an admiration of grace and competence. They circle each other like stalking predators, looking for weaknesses, finding very few. But at the same time they're relaxed around each other, so that even Hulk can tell there's not a hint of danger. 

This time they run the full pattern of an MMA fight uninterrupted, strikes and blocks first, followed by grappling, until Clint has Phil in an unbreakable hold and Phil taps out, then captures Clint in a kiss, and they both lie back on the mats, breathing hard and laughing. 

Off to the side, Hulk lays himself down on his back, too, figuring that at least this is a part he can join in without doing any harm. Clint sees and he laughs all over again at the absurdity that is his life. 

Phil smiles at Hulk, and he says, "Feeling a little left out?" 

Hulk makes an annoyed, resigned expression, but then he returns Phil's smile. "Know how to smash," he says. "Not need to train." 

Phil sits up, and he shakes his head. "You're as bad as Bruce at not answering the actual question," he says. He scoots over the mats, heading in Hulk's direction. His inefficient but casual, almost crablike motions cause Clint to break into another wave of laughter, rolling slightly, although Clint agrees that this is important and that Phil has the best instincts for knowing how to approach unusual assets out of anyone he's ever seen. 

"You're part of the team," Phil continues. "I'm sure there's some kind of training that would benefit you." He sets himself by Hulk's head, about twice the size in every dimension from Bruce's, and he runs his fingers through that familiar curling, dark hair. 

"Hmph," Hulk grumbles, not quite believing, but leaning into Phil's touch anyway. 

Clint rolls all the way over to the two of them, still snickering to himself, and he ends up tucked between Phil's leg and one of Hulk's tremendous hands, head in Phil's lap and legs draped over Hulk's arm. Hulk turns his head to see Clint looking at him from under Phil's arm, and he grins hugely. Now Phil has a hand in Hulk's hair and one scrubbing through Clint's. 

"We should hang out more, anyway," Clint says, reaching down to pat Hulk's arm. "Maybe training, maybe something else. Anything you wanna do?" 

Hulk snuffles thoughtfully, and he lifts the arm that Clint's not half sitting on to touch Phil's shoulder lightly, gently rubbing at his back. "Like smashing," he ponders. "Like this too." 

Phil nods. "It is nice," he says. 

"What about TV, you ever wanna be the one laying around watching movies with us or anything?" Clint asks. 

Hulk rolls his eyes. "Banner gets them," he says. 

"Yeah, not your speed, huh?" Clint says sympathetically. "How 'bout food, you wanna eat with us sometime?" 

Hulk moves his shoulders, slightly and carefully, in a shrugging motion and gives a noncommital wince. 

"Yeah, food is kinda Bruce's thing too, I guess," Clint agrees. 

Phil sighs, and he scrubs his hand more vigorously through Hulk's hair. "I'd like it if we could do more for you," he tells him. 

Hulk looks at Phil with wide eyes. He can't articulate what he wants to say. His face screws up with frustration and he closes his eyes. When they open again they're flicking between green and brown. 

"Beloveds," he says, nuzzling against Phil's knee and running his free hand along Clint's shoulder. "You do so much." 

A bright but gentle smile comes over Phil's face. "I'm very happy to hear that," he says softly. 

"Yeah," Clint agrees. He reaches up to stroke the huge green hand that's hovering over him. 

"We just want to make sure you know you can ask for more," Phil continues. 

Hulk regards them both placidly for a moment. Then, "Kisses?" he asks. 

Clint and Phil look at each other. 

"Little kisses," says Phil. "As many as you want. Anything else, we'll have to talk over with Banner first." 

"Little kisses," Hulk agrees, eyes crinkling. 

Phil bends down and brushes aside his hair to press a kiss to his forehead, and then another to his lips, brief but firm. Clint wriggles in closer to do similar, sitting on Hulk's chest to lean down, kissing Hulk's cheek, then nose, then mouth, and then he scrambles across to lean against Hulk on the opposite side of where Phil is, curling up in the junction of his neck and shoulder and half-sprawling across his chest. Hulk hums approval, and his head falls back; he's content and passive as the Hulk's ever been witnessed to be. 

It looks as if Hulk's going to be a much bigger part of their lives, from now on.


	19. Day 19, Prompt 10: Explaining a kink to their partner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already corrupted plastic wrap. For my next trick I will corrupt fresh-baked muffins. Apologies.

"You know, I bet he'd enjoy it too," Bruce says to Clint offhand one Sunday afternoon, the three of them sprawled across the couch with their electronic devices and warm, nearly-sunset light slanting over them. 

"What?" Clint looks up, confused. 

"You haven't asked me to feed you in a while, and I was realizing it's only been a couple of times since Phil joined us, and never with him," Bruce says. "But I bet he'd like it." 

Clint goes red. 

"I'm missing something," Phil says. 

"It's not important," Clint says, avoiding their eyes. 

"I think it is," Bruce insists. "Do you want me to explain?" 

Clint's still-red face scrunches up, and he says, "No, I can take this." He takes a deep breath. "There's kinda a... thing we sometimes do," he starts. 

Phil nods encouragingly, putting down his tablet. 

"Okay, well, y'know how it is, livin' on the road. How many places y'think we've gotten takeout or package food from? An' for you, that's always been a thing you gotta do when you're workin'. For me, it's just been my life." 

"I know." Phil's expression is all businesslike acceptance, no pity, and that is one of the reasons Clint loves him the very most. 

"Bruce cooks for me," Clint says, and then he has to pause for a moment, just letting that sentence hang in the air, thick with significance. "An' I just... not a lotta people have, y'know? An' no one made it a regular thing, not until Bruce. So it's an 'us' thing. Kinda seemed natural at the time to mix it in with other 'us' things." Clint glances warily at Phil. 

"It's naturally intimate," Phil agrees. "It signals trust and dedication, like sex does." 

"Yeah," Clint says with some measure of relief. 

"So there's a particular way you blend those things that works for you," Phil says, "and you haven't done it since I've been here because you were, what, embarrassed?" 

"Kinda?" 

Phil shakes his head. "Clint, I've seen you in compromising positions." 

"Yeah, but this is... different." 

Phil narrows his eyes speculatively, frowning a little at Clint. "I realize that. Clint, when I agreed to this, it wasn't casual. I want to be a real part of your relationship, all right?" 

Clint nods. "Yeah, an' you know the most about me, never judged," and the archer's fumbling for words, "but I mean there's embarrassing like stuff that anyone could guess and then there's...." 

"The things that make you most vulnerable." 

"Yeah." 

"So show me." 

"What?" 

"I've seen how you take care of Bruce, watched you open him up. I've seen so much of what makes him tick. Bruce took it on faith that he could trust me with his most vulnerable moments; he did that, on your say-so. I want at least as much from you. I want to see how Bruce takes care of you." 

Clint hears that, registers it, and then he looks guiltily at Bruce. But Bruce is just smiling at him. 

"Shit," says Clint. "Okay, you're right, you got me. If you really wanna see, you can." 

"I really do," Phil says. 

Bruce smiles at Phil. "Good," he says. "Because I was thinking of making amaranth muffins, but last time might have ruined them for casual eating." 

Clint goes distinctly red again. He clearly agrees. His head falls back against the couch and he groans. "Those... " he says. "Mmm. Yeah, those were good." 

Bruce chuckles at his reaction. Then he puts a hand on Clint's arm. "I want to make them tonight," he tells Clint. "For both of you." Somehow he's both dead-solemn-serious and smiling at the same time. 

Clint looks back and forth between Bruce and Phil. "Yeah, okay," he tells Bruce, and this time he sounds like he really is okay with it. 

Phil's watching them curiously. "Sounds like a dress-down sort of meal," he says with a hint of a smile. 

"All the way down," Clint answers, grinning. "If you want. It varies." 

They settle back into their tasks for a while, but then Clint starts casually prodding Bruce now and then, as if wanting to be sure that he's not losing track of time. Bruce raises his eyebrows at him. "Impatient now?" he asks. 

"Yeah, well," Clint says, "you're the one who brought up the muffins. Can't really stop thinkin' about 'em now." 

"Okay," says Bruce. "I can start getting prepped." He gets up and wanders into the kitchen. 

Clint nearly bounces off the couch, holding out a hand for Phil. "I take it you've missed this," Phil comments once they're both upright and heading in that direction as well. 

"Yeah," Clint admits, "kinda have. But just gettin' to watch Bruce cook is pretty good all on its own. 

"I've noticed," Phil says with an amused smile. He unbuttons his shirt and sets it aside, stripping down to his underwear and watching as Clint does the same. Then they settle into their seats at the bar. The stools there are pretty much just tall chairs, with contoured wooden seats and substantial backs, so relaxing into them isn't a difficult prospect. 

Bruce is wandering around the kitchen in his boxers, getting things out of cupboards and peering into the fridge thoughtfully before retrieving eggs and a couple of other things. When he sees they've taken their seats, he smiles at them like he's got a marvelous secret. Then he starts his baking. 

It's pretty standard at first, turning on the oven, measuring flour and baking powder into a sifter, both regular wheat flour and another, slightly warmer colored and sweet-smelling flour. He sifts that into a bowl then starts a second bowl with a little sugar, an egg and oil and milk, and just a drop of vanilla. 

Then he pours a bit of oil into a small bowl and dips his fingers in, and carefully spreads it along the functional surfaces of the muffin tin, just a little more slowly and thoroughly than is really necessary, and then he moves the remaining oil up to set it on the bar, casually, as if he's just getting it out of the way. 

He stirs the contents of the two larger bowls together, then pours batter into the tin, sliding it into the oven, and Phil wonders if there's going to be some kind of intermission while they bake but he looks over at Clint and Clint is slouched, elbows on the bar, watching intently. 

Bruce washes his hands, and he fills and puts on the kettle, and then he takes fruit from the jumble of things on the counter and washes that, a soft yellow pear, a deep purple-black plum and a cluster of red grapes, each in turn held under the stream of water and rubbed clean. Then he slices them up into smallish pieces, even cutting the grapes in half, and then puts them all into another bowl, which he also puts on the bar. Clint doesn't touch it yet, so Phil follows his lead. 

When the kettle is hot, Bruce reaches for a clear glass teapot, and he puts a tiny green bundle into the bottom. He pours in the water and the leaves and petals in the bundle swell up and spread, blooming into a flower. While it's brewing, Bruce rearranges and puts away for a little while, making the kitchen neater, but he's not done preparing food. Next he takes up a whisk and a bowl and a carton of heavy cream. 

Bruce whips it into a froth with continuous strokes, and Phil sees the familiar muscles of an archer (though not as pronounced as the ones he's seen so much of) in Bruce's arm as he works. When it's ready, he takes out the whisk and sets that bowl on the bar as well. 

Then Bruce takes out the muffins, sliding them out of their pan and onto a metal rack, which he leaves just below the bar, next to a bowl of butter that had been sitting on the oven and a container of honey. 

There's a smile of satisfaction on his face as he comes around the edge of the counter, making his way to a spot between their seats. Clint's turned his chair to face Phil's, and Phil adjusts his accordingly, but when Bruce gets into position, he grabs the seat and pulls it closer, until Clint and Phil's knees are touching and Bruce is bracketed in between, with barely enough room to turn. Then he leans in to kiss Phil, and he's got a dusting of flour across him and slightly sticky fingers and Phil finds it all incredibly endearing, if not quite as hot as Clint seems to find it. He kisses back, warm and friendly and appreciative. 

Bruce turns to Clint next, by way of the bar, snagging a piece of pear as he turns. He kisses Clint deeply, then pulls back just long enough to slip the fruit into his mouth, then kisses again, closed-mouthed. Phil watches in fascination as Clint's expression gains a heavy-lidded quality that he's never seen on the man vigilant enough to earn a name like Hawkeye. 

Bruce turns back to Phil, looking at him speculatively, thinking of the supplies he's amassed on the bar and on the counter below. He can tell that Phil's not as into it as Clint is, not yet, but is truly willing to give it a chance. 

He takes a piece of plum between his fingers, and he kisses Phil again, and then he just traces the fruit along Phil's lips, leaving a trail of juice. He pulls it away, and he leans up to Clint again, saying, "This one's a kiss from Phil." Then he presses it between the archer's lips. 

Phil watches Clint eat the fruit with obvious appreciation, and he licks his lips, and they taste like the same fruit, and he's starting to get it. 

Next they start in on the whipped cream, and it's fluffy but not sweet, and it doesn't taste like packaged food, which, that's a new experience even for Phil. And of course there are no spoons or anything, so Bruce is just scooping it up on his fingers. Clint licks whipped cream off one of Bruce's fingers, and Bruce wipes off some that's left on Clint's lips with his thumb, and offers that thumb to Phil. Phil licks up the cream. 

There's fruit and cream and kisses, and Bruce spends some time licking cream off of Clint's nipples, and then Phil's neck, and then Phil sucks the fruit and cream off every inch of Bruce's hands, and yes, this is definitely going to be his kind of thing from now on, too. 

Then Bruce reaches for one of the muffins. 

He breaks it open and tests the temperature with a thumb in the very middle, and then he nods to himself. Cool enough. He breaks off a bite-sized chunk and dips just the edge in the melted butter and adds a tiny bit of honey. Then he kisses Clint's mouth open, and puts it inside. 

Clint _moans._

Bruce kisses his way down Clint's neck, and then he returns his attention to the rest of the muffin, preparing another bite the same way. Phil isn't sure what to expect, but he knows he wants to find out. 

So Bruce, of course, doesn't give it to him right away. 

He kisses Phil's mouth, and he kisses Phil's chin, and he kisses Phil's jaw, and Clint is looking at him from under heavy eyelids, but there's a twinkle of humor there even still. 

The honey drips onto Phil's shoulder, and Bruce pulls back to look at Phil's face, his yearning, demanding eyes, and he smiles mischievously, apologetically. He kisses Phil one more time, then feeds him the bite. 

The butter and honey hit first, and under that is the taste of fresh warm bread, but sweeter, slightly more nutty, with a depth not quite akin to molasses. 

It is very, very good, and only enhanced by the feeling of Bruce's fingers on his neck and Bruce's mouth sucking the honey off his shoulder. 

Clint's hands are on Bruce now, claiming him back, and Bruce goes, taking the rest of the half-muffin and piling it with whipped cream that's going slightly drippy and a generous amount of honey. It drips everywhere on the way to Clint's mouth, which is open to receive it, and Bruce's mouth closes over Clint's once it's found its place, and there are a few loose kisses before Clint actually gets around to doing anything with the food in his mouth. 

By that time Bruce is kissing the cream and honey away from Clint's front, starting with the collarbone, sucking definitively at a nipple, and then continuing down Clint's ribs to the waist of his boxers. Clint's hands are still on Bruce, on his shoulder and in his hair, guiding his mouth. 

But soon enough Bruce rises again, gives Clint another kiss, and then grabs the other half of the muffin to rip apart. 

He loads it with cream and a little honey and he starts towards Phil, kissing him as he lets the cream dribble down Phil's shoulder, but once he pulls back to put it in Phil's mouth, Phil pushes it gently towards Bruce instead. Bruce smiles, and he eats it, and then he kisses Phil, letting him taste it. Phil accepts it, accepts it all, and reaches up to pull Bruce further in, steady fingers in his hair. 

Clint is leaning in now, but not pulling Bruce back this time; instead he slants to the side and laps at the cream and honey running down Phil's chest. Phil shivers slightly and leans into both men's mouths. They're all wrapped around each other and delightfully sticky and getting closer by the moment. 

Bruce pulls back from their kiss and he gets another piece of muffin and manages to press it into Phil's mouth this time; the look they exchange says that while this is for Clint, each of them is stubborn enough to make sure the other still gets their fill out of it. Another light kiss seals the pact. 

While Bruce turns around and continues to feed Clint, Phil curls into him, mouthing at his shoulder and watching Clint's face. They eat most of another muffin that way, Bruce feeding Clint, Phil reaching around to slip pieces into Bruce's mouth, and Clint reaching up to transfer pieces from his mouth to Phil's. 

Clint's legs are wrapped tight around Bruce's hips, and Phil's legs are tangled with both of theirs, and Phil is stretching to kiss Clint while Bruce nibbles at the archer's neck, and the energy of the embrace changes; Bruce tugs Clint's hips closer to his, and a shudder runs through them all, and Bruce bites down on Clint's shoulder a little, and Clint moans into Phil's mouth. 

Bruce draws Clint's underwear down with one hand while the other scrambles for the bowl of oil, dipping his fingers in again, and then he spreads it over Clint's cock in one long stroke, making everything smooth and easy. Phil watches, awed at how full and ready Clint already is, how magnificently heavy he looks in Bruce's hand. Clint's breathing is shallow and he's grasping at Bruce and Phil by turns in aimless need, leaning his head on Bruce's shoulder and whispering pleas into his ear. 

So Bruce goes to work with his hand, oil smoothing the way, and Clint's cock is shining and flushed and irresistible and Phil reaches out to touch it, to add his hand to the mix. 

Clint's gone incoherent but he's watching their hands working him, watching every twitch and anticipating every burst of pleasure, separated like the color and sound of fireworks, the sight producing sharper joy but the resulting vibrations having greater impact. He shudders with it as they work him, Phil's hand curling around and under Bruce's, filling in and lengthening the tight press of palms and fingers enclosing him. Bruce's other hand dips lower, just brushing Clint's balls, and there's an immediate and dramatic reaction to that, a cry and a tightened grip on both their arms and a gush of fluid and they stroke upwards one more time in unison, and all three of them draw closer together, all three of them breathe in, and there's a moment of perfect silence. Clint is bare in front of them, as vulnerable as he's ever let himself be, and now he's panting and softening in their hands. 

Bruce moves, gathering Clint up in his arms, holding him tight, and Phil - Phil's eyes are damp, as he looks at them, everything they are to each other and everything they've offered him a place in. He holds them both as best he can, immensely grateful. 

Bruce kisses Clint's cheeks and holds him with one arm as he turns sideways so his back is up against the bar, and Phil shifts out of his seat to face Bruce, efficiently moving their underwear out of the way and reaching to spread more oil across his hands. He works them quickly, a little rough, and after watching the spectacle of Clint unfold before them, they are more than ready and it isn't long before they're gasping into each other's necks and coming all over each other, hot and thick and abundant. 

And when they kiss, there's a stillness between them, waiting to have wonderful things put into it. 

Phil obliges. 

He cradles Bruce's head and neck in his arms, and he whispers, "I love you, Bruce." 

Bruce lets his head droop into the support of those arms, and he hums a little, thumbing the scar tissue running up Phil's back and thinking how grateful he is for Phil's presence, his strength. 

"Good," murmurs Bruce. "I love you too." 


	20. Day 20, Prompt 6: Corsets

"Oh, wow," Clint says as he lifts his present from its packaging. "Thought these were a myth." 

"The people who popularized the idea never followed through on it," Phil says. "But I know a good tailor. Does formalwear in tactical materials for me all the time. It wasn't that far outside his purview." 

It is, in fact, a tactical corset. 

It's black with rich red-purple accents, contour lines running down its sides. It's got standard attachment points along the front, and on the back, there are anchor points for his quiver. 

Clint sets it down next to the box, and he laughs when he sees what's underneath. A silky-looking purple shirt and long black bracers. "Wow. Knew you had a thing for dressing up Avengers in tights, but... man, it's just like the circus again." 

Phil looks slightly embarrassed over the reminder of how closely he'd been involved in the redesign of Steve's uniform, and how many times he'd felt compelled to mention it. Then he clears his throat. "So do you like it? Or is it as ridiculous as it's suddenly seeming like it must be?" 

"I like it," Clint says. "An' you know what I like even better? How you're turnin' all pink just thinkin' about me puttin' it on." 

Phil's face gets even more flustered, and Clint takes pity on him and moves in to kiss away the hesitance and pull him into something he definitely knows how to do. 

Bruce is sitting nearby, smiling at the two of them, examining the clothing interestedly. He can't picture it yet, but Clint looks good in anything and everything, usual tac suit, ancient sweats or the rare button-up and borrowed, slightly crooked tie. 

"How 'bout you, Doc?" Clint asks him. "Eager to see me in my new flashy duds?" 

Bruce looks thoughtful. "I like you in anything," he says, smiling, "and especially in nothing. But I'm starting to get that Phil knows what he's doing with clothes." He turns his smile on Phil. "You can dress yourself a lot better than either of us can; I'm firmly a thrift shop guy and I'm even starting to see the merits of tailoring. So, yeah, I'm eager to see how this looks." 

"Right," says Clint, standing up. "No reason to keep you waiting." He strips off his tee, grinning at the way the other two sit back to watch, Bruce with composed enjoyment and Phil with that adorable blush. Anything that makes Phil look that joyfully unsettled has to be worthwhile. 

He pulls on the silky shirt, and Clint can see in Bruce's face that he's still tending to the 'it's a crime to cover that perfection' camp in this scenario. He picks the bracers to go on next; it's not completely Robin Hood, all the fasteners are modern tac stuff, so they zip easily enough up the backs of his arms, and then a tab snaps into place over the pull. It's been thought out, by someone who has the measurements and requirements they use to build his regular tac suits. 

Then there's the corset, which fastens up the back with a row of little plastic side-release buckles; no one's doubting the patience of the people in this room but it's a necessity for each of them, not something they like to play with unnecessarily, so there's no advantage in having laces instead. He snugs it up against his hips, over the black jeans he's wearing, and he does up the lower buckles before Phil is standing behind him and asking "May I?" 

"Yeah, sure," Clint answers, and his hands settle to his sides as Phil snaps together the rest of the buckles and adjusts the straps a bit. Then he squeezes Clint's shoulder and stands back again. 

Clint turns around, stretching, checking his range of motion. "Not bad," he concludes. "How's it look?" 

Phil doesn't answer; he looks as if his brain's been incapacitated. His jaw's dropped a little but by virtue of finely-honed 'unflappable agent' skills, his mouth isn't hanging open... much. 

"Wow," says Bruce. "That is something." 

The shirt hasn't got a lot of excess material to it, and wouldn't get in the way of, say, archery, but the weight and flexibility of the material means that it still drapes like water at the edges of the corset and bracers, rolls and bunches beautifully over the muscles of his upper arms and shoulders. So the lines that make up his body are subtly visible from the jeans that hug his thighs and ass, through the tight-fit corset at his waist and ribs, and up to those arms and shoulders that Bruce so appreciates. So it's got almost all the advantages of nothing, plus a flair that's all Hawkeye. 

Clint's smiling smugly at Phil now, and he kind of saunters over to him, taking Phil's hands and settling them on his waist, over the sturdy, ridged exterior of the corset. Then he takes Phil's face in his hands, and kisses him. 

They're so beautiful. 

Phil's not dressed up, but he's always dressed nicely; he's got on this clean, very pale peach button-down that looks so crisp, even though it's open at the neck and the cuffs are rolled up. It's like he's glowing. Bruce sighs to look at them, feeling just slightly that they're out of reach. 

Clint breaks their kiss with several smaller kisses, then he grins. "Bet you wanna see this in action, huh?" he asks. He turns to Bruce. "Whattya say, wanna go down to the range for a bit?" 

And wow, yes, Bruce really does want to see that. He scrambles up out of his seat. 

Clint chuckles. "Wasn't sure you really liked it until just now," he says. "Ready to go, huh?" 

"Very much," Bruce agrees, with a crinkle-eyed smile. He holds out a hand to Clint, and they all depart for the range hand-in-hand-in-hand. 

Bruce doesn't bother to get out his bow, eyes only for Clint. Phil helps him fasten the quiver into place, and then stands back as well, and they watch as he strings his bow and sets his stance and nocks an arrow and draws. 

It's magnificent, and Bruce always appreciates it, how every part of Clint's body sort of slots into place, how it becomes clear that this is what he does. And today, in that outfit, he shines with competence, he shines like the point of a weapon. The lines of his torso are highlighted and the soft glimmer of the purple fabric on his shoulders shifts and changes with every motion. 

Bruce slides in behind Phil, wrapping his arms around the other man. "That... is a work of genius," he tells him. 

"Mmm," Phil agrees, squeezing one of Bruce's hands. "My tailor does good work." 

"I'm guessing you had more than a little involvement in how that ended up looking," Bruce counters. He turns the barest amount to look at Phil's expression, but Phil is still looking at Clint as if he's lost in the dark and the archer is the only light for miles. 

"I guess it would be unprofessional of me to ravage him right here and now," Phil says sadly. 

Bruce laughs, and Phil turns curious eyes on him for a brief second. Bruce whispers in his ear. 

"I once blew Clint while he was standing right there, doing his thing," he tells Phil in a gleeful whisper. "Steve almost caught us." 

Phil goes deep red again, imagining that. 

"Still a perfect shot, even with my mouth all over him," Bruce says, continuing to breathe the words into Phil's ear. "Should've seen it. We should've had an audience. I'm not sure if the Captain would have appreciated it properly, but it was something to see, and I was a little distracted." 

Phil bites his lip to keep from reacting to that with potentially embarrassing noises, and his hand tightens on Bruce's. Bruce watches the both of them alternately, both of them going flushed and sweaty for completely different reasons. 

Clint's putting the outfit through its paces, shooting for speed now, checking to see if any part of it hinders him or gets in the way, but it hasn't yet, except for making his breathing a bit shallower. He tries a few shots from a kneeling stance, some rolls and other maneuvers. 

"But we'll take him back home first, today," Bruce is still muttering in Phil's ear. "I wonder how that getup stands up to some other kinds of gymnastics." He's grinning unrepentantly even as his lips brush against Phil's ear. 

Clint looks up at them as he puts down his bow to retrieve his arrows. "Hey, don't break my Phil," he tells Bruce. "Only just got 'im back." 

"You're doing most of it," Bruce returns. "I'm just commenting on it." 

"Really," Clint says as he collects the arrows carefully and returns them to the quiver. "'Cause he looks pretty worked up. Time to head back?" 

"Yes," says Phil definitively. "Time to get home." 

Clint puts his bow and quiver away and Phil makes it to the elevator without completely losing his cool, at least. But once the doors close, Phil can't keep his hands and mouth off the archer. 

Clint welcomes it, drinks in Phil's presence and attention and desire, runs fingers up the crisp planes of Phil's shirt to feel the flesh under them, clings to him equally hard for a while, but then he pushes Phil back just far enough to look him in the eyes and say, "Hey." 

"Hey," Phil answers. "I like your clothes." 

"I got that," Clint laughs. He gives him another quick kiss. "I'm glad. Been wondering what it would take to get _you_ to be messy, 'specially since the muffin thing. This is it, huh?" 

"Yes," Phil answers, slightly hoarsely, running hands along the corseted planes of Clint's torso. 

"I like you messy," Clint says, smiling. He sets both hands on Phil's collar, and kisses him again, hot and wet. 

It's Bruce who guides them out of the elevator this time, through the kitchen and into the bedroom, Bruce who takes the chair for the moment and leaves them to the bed. Clint's unbuttoned Phil's shirt, brushed it aside to kiss Phil's chest and shoulders, and Phil's undone Clint's bracers, pushing up his sleeves, grasping his arms, kissing him with fervor. They've shuffled their way onto the bed, on their knees, facing each other. 

"How d'you want me?" Clint asks. 

Phil's eyes dart across Clint's body, across his face, seeing the breadth of possibilities. "Naked and fucking me," he decides, "while Bruce is fucking you." 

Clint's breath catches, and he says, "Yeah." He looks to Bruce for confirmation. 

"Oh, I am more than willing," says Bruce, lifting himself out of the chair to come and join them. 

Meanwhile Phil is reaching around to undo the buckles running down Clint's back, releasing each one with a quick and efficient snap. Bruce has shed his own clothes and he comes up behind Clint and wraps his arms around the archer's hips, under Phil's arms, to undo Clint's fly. 

The outfit is beautiful, but Bruce has missed the skin that's revealed now. 

Bruce pushes Clint's jeans down his thighs, and he watches Phil's hands pull away the corset, setting it to the side, and then slide the silky shirt up his back, and Bruce can see those hands tremble as they reveal Clint's back. Bruce kisses the uncovered skin of Clint's back, and he kisses those hands, too. 

Bruce moves to the side to reach for supplies, and Clint shifts to pull off Phil's pants, kicking his own the rest of the way off as he does. 

Phil is on his back now, but he's not a passive player; he's dragging Clint down to meet his kisses, charting Clint's body with his hands. Clint is looking pretty far gone himself, lost in observing Phil's reactions. Bruce slips the lube into his hands and Clint glances down at it, blinking for a moment before his brain fully engages and he can start in on the task it represents. This is why Bruce lets him get well started in on it before taking the lube back and prepping Clint for himself. 

It isn't long before Phil is begging for more, voice still relatively composed but deceptively so, and the fact that he's making much noise at all is out of the ordinary, anyway. Clint sees that too, and he puts on a condom, rearranges Phil's legs and pushes in. Phil goes silent again, eyes half-closed and mouth half-open, looking like he's just discovered a new plane of existence. 

Bruce is still working to open Clint as he pushes into Phil, but Clint's tightening around him, and he has to wait a moment for Clint to relax again. Once he does, a few more slides of Bruce's fingers and he decides it's sufficient; no more waiting. He wraps himself, gets a grip on Clint's hips, and he slides into Clint. 

All three of them moan, Phil quiet, Bruce expressive, and Clint tight and full of almost-words. 

Clint pushes back against Bruce's dick, withdrawing a little from Phil, and Bruce thrusts even farther, pushing Clint into Phil, and there's another wave of simultaneous voices, more intermingled now that the vibrations of each other's voices are traveling through all their tightly linked bodies. 

It's amazing, anyway, and Phil has got an armful of absolutely breathless Clint, and he wants to consume the archer whole. But at the moment he can't get enough breath and/or presence of mind to speak, so he lets Bruce do the coordination. 

Bruce slides back out, pulls Clint with him a little of the way, and then slams back in. All of them together groan. 

Speed and urgency increase quickly after that; Phil is so close already and Clint wants to drive him over the edge intensely, thoroughly, now. Bruce follows his lead now, picking up the accelerating pace, wrapping arms around Clint to hold him close. 

Phil is breathing quick and ragged and his eyes are wide but focused on Clint, and Clint is watching him in turn, finding him irresistible. Clint wraps a hand around Phil's cock, and Phil makes a noise more than a breath but less than a cry, like pressurized air releasing from containment, and he comes, hard. 

Bruce fucks into Clint, letting the other two draw him to the edge, but he holds out until he feels Clint quake and shudder in his arms, and then he releases as well, crying out low and wrecked, holding Clint even tighter. 

The three of them are great, he thinks as his thoughts are still soaring. The three of them are monumental. 

And all three of them aren't going anywhere.


	21. Day 21, Prompt 30: Voyeurism

There are very few things that still get to Hulk enough to make him a genuine potential danger while Bruce is in the driver's seat. 

One of them is, apparently, Clint being seriously injured in battle. 

Bruce is extremely thankful that there's Phil now, that Coulson can sit by Clint's bedside, be there when he wakes up, and be calm and steady while Bruce is outside, pacing and counting and trying to salvage things with the Hulk. 

They've learned to cooperate, to communicate, and Hulk had been just fine with sitting back and letting Bruce do his first aid thing when Clint had gone down; Hulk knows Bruce is more useful at a time like that. 

There's nothing Bruce can do now, as much as Hulk would like to be able to goad him into action, to _make Clint better._ Hulk's getting very frustrated with him, and it's veering very close to that cascade point where he'd have no choice to shut himself off from the Other Guy to preserve his own control. Hulk hates that. 

Hulk also hates his own uncontrollable rage, hates that he's the reason they can't be with Clint right now, but he can't stop it, as it builds up, escalates, spirals out of control. 

It's been a while, but Bruce has kept a hold on how to deal with anger; hating it, he turns his back to Hulk, toughening himself against the rage, seeking out and holding tight to patterns, to numbers, to thoughts. He brings up the sudoku app on his phone, sinking into logic, into a world of finite little squares with finite little answers to finite little questions, banishing everything else. 

After a string of puzzles, a little text conversation with Jarvis about his current projects in the lab, and then some time spent reacquainting himself with his surroundings from this closed-off perspective, Bruce decides he's all right to go back in and see Clint. 

He enters to see Phil stroking Clint's hand and talking quietly and steadily to him. 

One leg's been badly fractured in several places, needed surgery to get it back into a condition where it could heal, and there's a cracked rib and a gash in his forehead and some other scrapes and he just generally looks like hell, and dazed from the drugs. 

So Bruce comes up to Clint's other side, takes his hand and just looks at him, not knowing what to say. 

Even through the haze, Clint can tell. "You an' Hulk fighting again?" he asks, looking sympathetic. "Sorry." 

"It happens," says Bruce, infinite acceptance in his tone. "He hates it when there's nothing either of us can do." 

"Know the feeling," Clint says, and now he's the one comforting Bruce, stroking the doctor's hand. 

Phil is looking appraisingly at him now, noting the differences in his stance, in the tensions on his face, the movements of his eyes. Bruce is grateful to see it, that awareness of the threat he might potentially pose. "Let me know if you need anything," Phil tells him mildly, and goes back to focusing on Clint. 

The next few days are rough; he isn't sure if he wants Phil in his bed or wants to keep him safely away. In this state, without Clint, he can't predict what might happen. But Phil insists, saying he sleeps lightly, saying he wants to be there in case Bruce needs him. 

And it helps, having Phil there when he wakes up from a nightmare, voice calm and even, touch familiar, something easy to hold on to. 

But even as Clint heals, even as his eyes get sharper and his movements get easier, things between Bruce and the Hulk don't change much. 

It's hard for Hulk. It's like having language wiped from your memory and having to relearn it, having to go through everything again, and between them there's still the raw knowledge that Clint isn't yet whole. 

Once Clint's back home, darting through the apartment in a wheelchair, cast propped up in front of him, Hulk still isn't ready to talk. He's still angry and in pain and worried about how little they've been feeling Clint's touch. 

They've been kissing, of course, kissing hello and goodbye on visits, and that is the extent of the intimate touch going on; Bruce has accepted the fact of Phil in his bed, in his arms, but hasn't wanted to go further without Clint there, all the old fears coming back to him. Although he loves Phil, he isn't Clint, isn't the only person who's managed to deal with Bruce and Hulk when they're like this, work them through sex, and not trigger dread and panic. 

And Clint still isn't in any shape to be an active participant, Bruce is adamant about that. But Clint argues his way around to giving something else a chance. 

* * *

Clint has talked this through thoroughly with both Bruce and Phil; it's odd, being the one briefing Coulson on a mission. But it's also right, telling Phil everything about how he first worked through the fear and panic and distrust and got both Bruce and Hulk to let themselves be cared for. 

There are tricks, specific things he's learned and can relay, and there's a pattern to the way things usually go that can be used as a map to compare to, but Clint's also just describing the feel of it, the way Bruce is and the way Clint leans against it, bringing him gradually and subtly through the process. And even though Clint's never been the best with words, the kind of poetry that would do justice to this description, Phil kinda always gets him, seems to know what he's trying to say. And Clint's never been more grateful for that, because his Bruce needs help and he can't give it. 

Clint wheels his chair over near the bed, where he can watch, make sure things are going well, and, of course, enjoy. Bruce settles himself in the center to do his meditation - he doesn't find it does much for his mind, but he can relax his body, which is useful here. Then he turns over, settling onto his stomach. 

Phil knows a little bit about how to settle an unhappy Hulk, from the latest run-in with Loki, but this is a larger game. Still, he follows his instincts and starts with hands on Bruce's head, fingers lacing through his hair, just lightly playing through it, letting Bruce and Hulk become accustomed to his presence and his touch in a way that they're familiar with, a way that doesn't have to be sexual. 

Phil's picked a different oil, knowing the strength of scent memory and insisting that he doesn't want Hulk to think he's trying to replace or pretend to be Clint. It's cocoa butter with a hint of bergamot oil, less flowery and more foody, rich, like sitting around with hot drinks, hot chocolate and Earl Grey. 

Phil eases into the massage by rubbing Bruce's hands first, then up each of his arms in turn, to the elbow, and then only after he's started in on Bruce's neck does he move to straddle his back, and then he works at the core muscles in the shoulders and between the shoulderblades. 

Clint is mesmerized by the sight, Phil working with the calm competence he has always loved about the agent, and Bruce letting him, relaxing down gradually into that desirable state of wordless calm. Bruce's head is turned his way, so he can see the residual tension leaching out of his face, leaving him looking better than he has since Clint's injury. It's a beautiful thing. 

Phil works his way down Bruce's back, on to his legs, more thorough and methodical here than Clint would be, and spending several minutes each on Bruce's feet. Then he moves back up to the shoulders, upper arms, and neck again, and finally he's stroking gently at Bruce's jaw and temples, and kissing him on the cheek. 

"You want me to go ahead?" he asks gently, calmly, holding one of Bruce's hands as a monitor. 

The lazy hum and the one quick squeeze are both good signs, but Phil waits for a little longer, and then Bruce is saying, "Actually, wait, I want to see you." 

So Phil shifts to allow Bruce to turn over again, and then he leans down to kiss Bruce on the cheek again before moving to sit astride him. 

Phil is the most competent man Clint has ever known, reading and judging exceptional people better than anyone else, adapting to situations and picking up new skills with incredible swiftness. Watching him learn this, learn the tension between Bruce and Hulk, it reminds him of all the reasons he loves Phil, all the reasons he'd trusted Coulson even when his life experiences shouted at him to trust no one. Phil is the reason he's here, and not dead or a soulless assassin for hire. 

Phil kisses Bruce, slow and deep and without reservation, perfectly, just how Clint would have right now. He curls fingers into Bruce's hair at the back of his neck, presses the solid weight of his torso against Bruce's, every movement slow and calculated and still deeply sincere. 

Clint is actively harboring at least three sins right now, full of pride and lust and envy. And right now, he sees, from a distance, the way he never has before, how much they care about him and trust him; Phil trusting his intel to deal with the Hulk, Bruce trusting that this is someone he can let in, someone who can do this. 

Clint watches, biting his lip, as Phil begins to open Bruce with careful fingers, one arm stretched up to keep the press of fingers on Bruce's neck as Bruce reacts to the intrusion, breathing hard, neck curving back into the pillows. Clint can see the tension, there as well as in the twitching motions of Bruce's hands, and the hardness of his cock. 

Clint presses a palm against his own arousal through the sweatpants he's wearing, soft, old, worn ones of Bruce's that are now slit to the knee on one side to accomodate his cast. A fresh glow of arousal colors his view now, looking at the two on the bed, and he watches as Phil kisses Bruce's hip, and then his lips trail down to the crease where the thigh begins, and Bruce gasps softly. Clint's hand changes angles and presses again, teasing and spreading the heat. Watching Bruce slowly drawn open despite his layers and layers of control, that leaves Clint breathless, every time. 

Phil withdraws his fingers at last, wiping them before rolling on a condom, every move efficient and purposeful. It's sexy as hell, and Clint pulls down his waistband then, and there's the first brush of skin on skin just as Phil pushes into Bruce and Bruce makes a breathy noise, a surprised, wanting sigh. Ripples of pleasure chase that noise through Clint as he works himself, watching them. 

Phil's one hand is still at Bruce's neck, still cradling him, and his other arm is hooked around a leg and then back up to rest against Bruce's side. The rhythm he sets is rock steady, slow but not too slow, a long slide in and nearly out. 

Bruce has one hand wrapped around Phil's arm, the one that's cradling his neck, and his expressions are intense, beautiful, irresistible to watch. His mouth is hovering half-open, his eyes gone unfocused and soft. 

Bruce. His Bruce. Being taken care of, given what he needs. Perfect, so perfect. Clint squeezes and kneads his own cock, eyes fixed on Bruce's face. 

Phil settles Bruce's bent leg back onto the bed so that he has a free hand, which he slides down Bruce's side and across his belly, and then he takes Bruce's cock in his hand, touch firm and deliberate but not rough or sudden. Bruce's eyes close and his mouth falls farther open, and he moans, high and broken. Two, three more strokes and he's gone, body bending, stretching, curling under Phil, hands clutching at his arm and shoulder. 

Clint's hand tightens around his own cock in time with those spasms, gives himself up to the beauty he's witness to, clenches his jaw but keeps his eyes open, fixed on Bruce and Phil, his world, his home. A glad whimper escapes him as he comes; it's a rush of release, of relief, to know that Bruce is in good hands, that he's gotten what he needs. 

His hand falls back onto his lap. Then Clint blinks tiredly and contentedly at the other two, watches as Phil pulls out and finishes himself as well, then settles into Bruce's side so that the two of them can indulge in lazy kisses. 

He's never felt so glad to be unneeded. 

Then Bruce turns his head just enough to look at Clint, beckoning the archer with the barest motion of his fingers, with the hand that Clint realizes has been stretched out in his direction for a while now. 

Clint wheels himself closer, arranging himself a little more sideways, so he can better reach out. He takes Bruce's hand in his. 

Bruce's eyes flick green, and he smiles a greeting, and a thanks.


	22. Day 22, Prompt 19: Oral sex

There's a knock on Coulson's office door, and he calls for whoever it is to come in. 

If he'd had to guess who it was, none of his first choices would have been Bruce Banner. 

"Bruce," he greets. "Do you need something?" 

Bruce just gives a small smile and a shake of his head and looks around the office. 

Phil frowns, then shrugs. "All right," he says. "Well, you're welcome to stick around for a while, if you'd like." 

"Thanks," Bruce says. 

There's silence for a few minutes. 

"So apparently," Bruce begins, into the silence, "while Clint's out of commission, he's bestowed upon me the solemn duty of being the member of your team who comes into your office randomly and bothers you." 

Phil keeps a straight face, probably by virtue of not looking away from his work, and certainly not at Bruce. "I'm pretty sure that's not actually in either of your job descriptions," he says. 

"He also told me I'm in charge of riding motorcycles off of inadvisably tall things, but I'm thinking of handing that honor off to Steve." 

Phil's face scrunches a little in an effort to maintain his unflappability, but Bruce is one of his boyfriends; his reputation is utterly meaningless to this man. He lets the smile free. "Tall things in particular, or just as a general rule?" 

"I didn't ask," Bruce replies. 

Phil looks at Bruce with a more serious expression now. "How's he holding up? He does get bored when he's injured. Are you here to escape his restlessness?" 

Bruce smiles and shakes his head. "He and Tony and Natasha are having a rubber band gun building contest. Steve's there as adult supervision," he reassures. 

"So you're actually just here to distract me?" Phil asks, his smile beginning to return. 

"Solemn duty," Bruce agrees. 

"Any particular advice he gave you about how?" Phil says, and he knows the moment he's spoken that he's going to regret asking, because Bruce's eyes spark with mischief and possibilities. 

"It was actually my idea to blow you," Bruce says, approaching, "but Clint wholeheartedly endorsed my plan." 

Phil blinks up at him. "Excuse me, did you just say what I think you just said?" 

Bruce smiles. 

"In my office?" Phil continues. 

"It's where you are," Bruce says, and shrugs. 

"And if somebody catches us?" Phil asks. 

"What are they going to do to the guy they were so desperate to have on staff that they brought him back from the dead, and the guy who turns into an unstoppable green rage monster?" 

"You are impressively blase about some things, and I don't say that lightly," is Phil's reply. 

"Spend enough time stark naked in the open air," Bruce says, leaning against Coulson's desk, "and it changes your perspective about some things." His smile is small and amused, but still with that gleam of mischief, and something hotter, more hungry. 

Phil shakes his head. "I think Clint's been rubbing off on you a little, too." 

Bruce smiles wider. "Very likely. There's something about archery that helps you stop second-guessing yourself." And with that, he leans down to kiss Phil. 

Bruce's lips against his are warm and soft but firm and not at all hesitant. The character of this man is so far from the way Natasha described him, after they'd met in Calcutta, curled tightly inward and helplessly bitter about his circumstances and the choices that led to them. But the concern, the dry humor, the conviction had all been there, and although Phil wasn't present for the process, he can see the lines along which he's been pried open, the pattern by which he's bloomed. 

Phil is honored to know this extraordinary man. 

There's barely a hint of tongue, a tempting taste, before Bruce pulls back and asks, "So, what do you say, going to let me complete my objective?" 

"I'm tempted," Phil admits, fingers trailing down Bruce's jaw. 

"But?" 

"I'd like to know why. Clint told you to come here?" 

"Not for Clint," Bruce says, looking into Phil's eyes. "Because I want to. I want to thank you for everything. I want to thank you for being here for me, and for the Other Guy." His voice has gone low, quiet, and now it acquires a rich rumble, Bruce's lips drawing close to his ear. "And because I'd really like to get my mouth on you." 

"I'd like that," says Phil, voice low as well. "But why here and now?" 

Bruce kneels in front of his chair now, settling between Phil's legs, and his hands trace the lines of Phil's suit jacket. "You remember when I told you about what I did to Clint on the archery range?" 

"You like the risk?" Phil says, surprised. He hadn't been sure that story was true. 

Bruce shakes his head. "I want to taste you when you're in your element," he corrects. "Watch you lose track of what you're supposed to be doing." 

Bruce's eyes are so brown, deep and glowing with warmth. His hands are under Phil's jacket now, warm against his sides through his shirt. "I'm already pretty far off track," Phil says, and he leans down to press his mouth to Bruce's, melting into the richness of the kiss. 

If the three of them are a piece of music, Clint is the melody, the memorable and flashy, Phil the supporting harmony, structural, often unnoticed but deeply important, and Bruce is the lowest end of the scale, deep and gentle and profound. Phil has always appreciated Bruce, but he hasn't gotten a chance to be immersed in that depth, hear those low, lonesome notes against the quiet. 

Bruce's hands are carefully undoing his belt, unwrapping him like a gift, eager, and he's drawing his mouth away from Phil's own, lowering his head into Phil's lap. Phil sinks his hands into Bruce's hair, having a little bit of trouble keeping them from shaking, which is odd. 

Bruce's moistened lips press against the head of Phil's cock, and a jolt of vibration runs through Phil, settling into his core; he goes from half-hard to very much ready. His fingers twitch across Bruce's scalp, wanting to pull him down but deeply aware of the restraint necessary in Bruce's case. It's a contradictory pull of priorities that deliciously increases his want. 

Bruce envelops the head in his mouth, licking, but doesn't go farther, instead changing the angle of his head just enough to look up at Phil's face, and Phil looks down at him, eyes full of patient but increasing want. Bruce's eyes spark to see it, encouraged, and he plunges down, immersing himself in the task of giving Phil pleasure. 

It's wet and slow and soft yet forceful; it's incredible, and the motions of Phil's hands in Bruce's hair grow more fevered, even as they remain carefully gentle. Bruce's tongue drags across flesh, in combination with a burst of suction, and Phil hauls in a large, ragged breath, head tilting back, and he's so lost in the sensations for a moment that when his eyes focus again and he remembers that he's in his office, the edge of risk (which Phil does, in fact, appreciate) kicks everything up another notch. 

Bruce hums against him, sinking down as far as he can and using a firm hand to make up the difference. He sucks and licks contentedly as if Phil is the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. Phil moves his hands out over Bruce's neck and shoulders, with juddering motions, not wanting to be tempted to force Bruce down farther. Because he is close; he's breathing quick and shallow and his hips are moving just slightly, rocking into Bruce's mouth by bare fractions of an inch, not able to keep completely still. 

Bruce's other hand is wandering across Phil's still-clothed torso, sliding across his ribs in the shadow of an embrace, brushing across his nipple through the dulling fabric of his shirt, drifting across his belly and down, and now it's pressing lightly at his balls. 

That and a tongue at his slit send Phil rocketing over the edge; he squeezes Bruce's shoulder, and he comes into Bruce's mouth, and Bruce takes it all in, swallowing, tongue undulating against the underside, hand squeezing perfectly just enough tighter. Phil can't quite hold back a deep, fervent groan. 

Or maybe, he didn't try as hard as usual to keep quiet, because he knows Bruce likes those little noises of appreciation more than he worries about getting caught. 

In any case, Bruce pulls back and rests his cheek against Phil's thigh for a moment, smiling and contented, and Phil moves a hand back to his hair, ruffling it, the only movement he can really manage at the moment. 

This moment of stillness, of home, is a purer confirmation than they've ever had that they love each other, not because of Clint, but just because of each other.


	23. Day 23, Prompt 28: Spanking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea how to set up for roleplay and I barely managed D/S but I tried to set up for spanking and what I got was more or less roleplay with hints of D/S. *shrug*

"Phiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiil," Clint whines when Coulson opens the door. "I'm so bored. Bruce's been working all day. Big breakthrough. Gonna revolutionize medical technology again I guess. Save me." He wiggles his arms in Phil's direction from his place on the couch. 

"How's the leg?" Phil asks as he takes off his jacket and folds it neatly over the back of an armchair. 

"Itchy," Clint answers, wrinkling his nose. "Driving me crazy." 

Phil frowns sympathetically as he sits beside Clint. He leans in for a kiss. "Pain?" he asks. "You've been suspiciously well-behaved this recovery. Everything healing all right?" 

"Not bad," Clint replies. "Even taking my meds. ...You know that look Bruce gets when he can tell I'm hurt." 

"I know it, I feel like that every time you push yourself too hard and too fast after an injury." 

Clint laughs disbelievingly. "Really? Mostly looked angry to me." 

Phil wraps an arm around Clint's shoulders and rubs reassuringly. "I was," he says. "And you can bet anything you like that Bruce is, too. But we hide different things. He has a complicated relationship with anger." 

Clint's laugh this time is fond. "You can say that again," he replies. Then he looks at Phil. "An' you, I guess? You're Agent Coulson. You don't worry about anything, ever." 

"Clint," Phil says, inching closer and speaking quieter, "I worry about everything, always. Especially when you're at risk." 

Clint nods, and there's gravity in his expression at the discovery of the truth in Phil's words. "Kinda always knew that, I guess," he says, looking down at his hands in his lap. "Kinda maybe wanted to make you mad so I could see it round the edges." 

Phil sighs, hearing that. He keeps his arm around Clint while he thinks, leaning into the archer's shoulder. "I haven't done you justice," he says at last. "You shouldn't have to do that to get your handler's attention. Even less so, your boyfriend's." 

"No," Clint says, looking up at his face again. "Hey, Coulson - Phil - Phil, it took a helluva long time for me to get that Bruce actually cares about me. I get 'angry' better, okay? I was a kid, people were angry, or they were lying. I didn't trust 'nice.' So you being mad at me..." He squints at Phil, unsure of the reception this revelation is going to get. "Best thing that coulda happened to me." 

There's no pity - Phil never ever pities him, it's not part of their thing - but there's resignation, acceptance. Understanding. "Okay," says Phil. "But I like it better when you don't hurt yourself. So can you tell me what you need?" 

"Gettin' better at it," Clint says, smile just a little thin. 

"I can make you spaghetti, if you want," Phil offers. 

Clint's smile gets brighter. "That'd be good," he says. 

So Phil makes spaghetti and sauce out of a jar, which is something he's pretty sure he can do without help, but he sends Jarvis a couple of surreptitious texts anyway, just to be sure. It never hurts to check your intel. He steams green beans, too, and sets the table neatly, plates on two adjacent sides, and it's not fancy the way some of Bruce's concoctions are, but it's very Phil. Clint loves it. Phil pushes his chair up to the table so that his injured leg stretches out on one side, and Phil's place is set on his other side. 

They eat and they reminisce, and it's all really good, homey, and when the food is gone Clint feels a lot better about things, but he's still bored. Restless. Itching to train, to do what he's best at. Phil can tell. 

"Don't even think about it," Phil tells him. 

"Oh yeah, how are you gonna stop me?" Clint replies, and it's a bit of a dare, a bit of a game, but under that he'd really like to know if Phil can help him with this. 

"I'll do whatever I have to," is Phil's answer, and the quiet confidence in that voice is just what Clint needs to hear right now. 

Clint starts his chair rolling back from the table, and he watches Phil as he does, eyes sparking with defiance and need. Phil darts around and catches the chair by the handles and leans down to murmur in Clint's ear, "If you're really going to fight me here, you need a safeword." 

"Corduroy," Clint says. It immediately summons thoughts of Bruce, the last person to take pleasure in violence. It fits them. Phil nods. 

Clint makes to start his chair forward, jerking it out of Phil's hands, radiating desperation, but Phil sees that his injured leg hasn't even twitched; he's doing his level best to follow the rules, and letting him express some of this can only help. So he lets the chair go, lets it roll away by a few feet before he catches up, nabbing Clint by the shoulders and saying, "Oh no you don't, you need to be in bed." 

"I'm sick of rest," Clint says, jerking the chair's wheels again. Phil's hands tighten on his shoulders. 

"Rest isn't exactly what I had in mind," Phil promises, roughness in his voice. "Now come on. Bed. Now." 

He pushes the chair towards the bedroom, steering with one hand and using the other to keep Clint firmly in the chair. Clint cranes his neck and glares at Phil and swears, but he doesn't make any serious attempt to escape. Phil knows the man's capabilities, even with injuries like this. 

Phil strips Clint of his shirt with brisk efficiency, then leans down to nip at his neck, fingers tracing the scars of his other cuts and scrapes, barely visible now, but Phil knows them intimately, as he always does. Then they both collaborate in levering Clint onto the bed without jostling his leg - it can't be done without Clint's cooperation, and at least it's something of a challenge. 

But Phil is under no illusions that the struggle is over as he carefully settles himself astride Clint's good leg. Clint's in place now, but finding it near impossible to stay put. 

"Lie still," Phil commands, continuing his careful tracery of Clint's scars by seeking out some older ones across his ribs. 

Clint makes to sit up. Phil slaps him on the meaty part of his shoulder, and the crack of impact carries through the room. "Stop that," Phil says with half-genuine aggravation. "Lie still and let me take care of you." 

The sting sinks into Clint's nerves and he does sink back, going still for nearly half a minute. Phil would be worried, but he sees hunger and appreciation in Clint's eyes, nothing else, and he hasn't heard the word. He takes the opportunity to lower his mouth to Clint's chest, tracing an old cut before starting in on one of the archer's nipples, first nosing at it, then sucking hard, listening to Clint's breath accelerate. 

Clint's arms move first, and Phil allows that, allows him to unbutton Phil's shirt and trace Phil's scars, starting with the largest and most recent, down his chest. Phil kisses Clint hard, not letting him sink into sameness, changing his approach every few minutes, but Clint still gets restless in time, leaning up to kiss Phil when he pulls away. Phil slaps his shoulder again, harder. "No you don't!" he snaps. "Lie still!" And he's growling now, palm stinging with the force, but it's right, Clint closing his eyes and lying back with something like relief. 

Phil presses his mouth to Clint's neck, sucking and biting until a bruise begins to form, watching Clint's reactions, which are now small but favorable, stuttered breaths and slackening jaw. Phil hums against Clint's neck, an approving sound, before leaning back for a moment to pull down his own pants, then Clint's. 

He settles against the archer, taking them both in his hand and stroking somewhat roughly, and soon Clint is squirming under him, and one of his hands joins Phil's, which makes Phil gasp and rock down against him. They're in constant frantic motion now, but Clint's damaged leg never stirs; Phil wants to express approval but knows that's not what Clint needs right now. He kisses Clint again, biting at his tongue, and Clint moans, tensing and twisting. His hand tightens around them and Phil's echoes it, pulling at them both. Phil watches Clint's expression as all of Clint's frustration and restlessness seems to bunch up in his face, trying to break free, and then their hands pull and stroke once more and it all dissolves, Clint pulsing in his hand and gasping into the air, head thrown back and expression lax. It's wonderful. 

Phil watches and keeps up the motion as long as Clint can stand, and then he pulls back, stroking himself, eyes focused on Clint's face, and it's such an enjoyable sight that he doesn't want to rush, instead lingering on long strokes until Clint regains some measure of awareness and raises his hand to join Phil's again, locking their eyes. And that's when Phil comes, long and hard and all over Clint. 

There is such a blessed silence now, Phil letting himself down to the bed and the two of them entwining hands, just lying there, spent, satisfied. Phil kisses the spot on Clint's shoulder, deeply tender, making absolutely sure Clint knows how he really feels. Clint hums in acknowledgement. And the two don't move again for a long time.


	24. Day 24, Prompt 20: Out-of-character clothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pace is beginning to wear me down. No porn today. I decided to cut my losses with this one.

"Are you sure you're up for this? It's not mandatory," Phil says to Bruce as he straightens his bowtie. 

"Yeah," Bruce says, nodding. "It's for a great cause. The unpredictabilty of large crowds of people... I can live with for a few hours. The tux?" He lifts his arms, looking down and over himself. "Well, it's not exactly uncommon for me to feel completely out of place in my own skin. I'll survive." 

Phil sighs almost imperceptibly. "That bad?" he asks, straightening the jacket over Bruce's shoulders before looking him in the eyes. 

Bruce smiles. "I've learned a lot of new tricks, but never how to strut like Tony does." He looks down at the suit again. "It just feels like a costume for a character and I don't know any of the lines." 

"Just be yourself," Phil says, setting hands on his shoulders. "Really." 

"I can probably handle that," Bruce says, kissing Phil on the cheek. 

"How's it look?" Clint says, stepping out of the bedroom in his own tuxedo, bowtie hanging loose. 

"Fantastic," says Phil, eyes tracing up and down the archer's figure. "But you might want to tie your tie." 

"Now why would I do that when I can have it done for me by an expert?" Clint replies, approaching Phil with humor-filled eyes. 

Phil shakes his head, but he ties Clint's tie. Clint looks Bruce's way. "Wow," he says. "You look about as uncomfortable in that thing as I feel." 

"He's fine," Phil protests. "And since when do you mind dressing up, if the occasion calls for it?" 

"Goin' undercover, performing, those I can do," he tells Phil. "Give me a mission, I'm on it. Right now, I'm a little... uh.... I can be Hawkeye, okay? People tonight wanna meet the guy behind Hawkeye? This... is not that guy." 

Phil looks at them in focused contemplation. "I don't want this to be stressful for either of you. That's not what this is about. I want to help you both relax." 

"Well, I don't want to disappoint you," Bruce replies, "but I'm pretty sure that 'being myself' in this context involves a lot of lurking in corners and avoiding loud people who aren't Tony." 

"That's fine," Phil says, taking Bruce's hand firmly in his. "That's the Bruce I love, okay? You're not comfortable being showy, and that's fine." He comes closer, sliding an arm around Bruce's waist. "But you should know that you look amazing in this." 

"Now that is a statement I can get behind," Clint says. "Not too often we get to see you dressed up, Doc." 

"Thanks, but, uh... I really don't see it. I mean...." Bruce looks at them with worry-narrowed eyes. "Is it really... it just feels... off. Not like me. Like, is this what you really want, because I don't think I'm it." 

Clint shakes his head. "You are it. I just fake it for a living. Hell, Bruce, you went to Harvard, you're best bros with Tony Stark, you got more sophistication in your left pinky than I got in my whole self. Believe me, you're it." 

"You're both wrong," says Phil. "Clothes are always a disguise. They might imply things about the person inside them, but those things have almost as much chance of being wrong as being right. And formalwear is great, because most people have a reason or two to wear it in their lives, so in it, you could really be anyone. All you really need to fit into a tux is a tux that fits. And that, I can't help but notice, the both of you definitely have." 

They look at him then, eyes shining. "Oh," says Bruce. "I see. That explains a lot about you." 

"It does, doesn't it?" Clint agrees. "I'm gettin' a whole new perspective. Like, so, do you _ever_ go off mission? Or are you just at variable levels of Agent Coulson-ness all the time?" 

Phil shrugs. "Or most of it. Not when I'm here with the two of you." 

Clint smirks. "I kinda wanna improve that ratio." 

"Anonymity, I can deal with," Bruce says, looking down at himself. "I'm just not used to it looking like this. I guess you are. You just always look so at home in a suit, I don't feel like I can compete." 

"Bruce." Phil kisses him. "You look amazing, okay? That's one thing you don't have to worry about." 

Bruce smiles in reply. "More of that would probably help." 

They get a little wrapped up in kissing each other on the way to the party, and by the time they arrive Bruce's tux is slightly rumpled and Clint's bowtie is a little askew. 

In other words, they look perfect.


	25. Day 25, Prompt 4: Bondage

"C'm'on, Doc, you never think about seeing me tied up?" 

"No," Bruce answers. "I don't. It's not an image that appeals to me. It's really not. I don't want people at my mercy. It's too much." 

"Okay, I get that," Clint says, trying to hide his disappointment. 

"You know what I do think about?" Bruce continues, still looking steadily at Clint. 

"Tell me," Clint says, buoyed up by the fact that Bruce hasn't completely changed the subject yet. 

"The way it looks when Phil's hands are around your wrists. Like they belong there. The way it looks right. I think about him holding you down while I fuck you. That, I would enjoy. Because I trust Phil with you more than I trust myself." 

Clint stares at him. "Wow," he says after a minute's silence. "Don't think I've ever heard you say anything so sexy before." 

Bruce smiles. "I take it that's an acceptable compromise?" 

"More than," says Clint. He looks to Phil, who's just coming over to join them on the sofa after starting the dishwasher. "Phil, you wanna hold me down?" 

"Constantly," says Phil. "You remember our safeword?" 

"You two have a safeword?" Bruce asks. "What do you get up to when I'm not here?" 

"Nothing crazy," Clint says. 

Bruce looks to Phil. 

"Nothing crazy," Phil agrees. And Bruce looks reassured. "He just likes having the option of pushing back a little when he's feeling restless. I get that." 

Bruce nods. "You two," he says, smiling a bit dazedly, "keep bringing the best and strangest things into my life." 

* * *

Clint is on his knees on the bed, naked, leaned back against Phil, who's kneeling behind him similarly unclothed and who's got his wrists in a firm hold. Both of Clint's arms are crossed over his front, and each wrist is held against the opposite side by one of Phil's hands. Phil is playing lightly across Clint's neck with his mouth, and for the moment, Bruce is just watching them both. 

Clint's magnificent body is his to touch however he wants, and Clint wants this too; if he wants Phil to let him go, all he needs to do is speak the word. 

Bruce strips too, before he gets on the bed, just in the spirit of fairness; he can feel Clint's eyes on him, watching hungrily. He moves closer, on his knees, until he's hovering over Clint, and Clint just keeps watching him expectantly. 

Bruce begins by laying his fingertips in the center of Clint's chest, and then they move from there, exploring, tracing across the archer's collarbones, along his shoulders, down his arms to where they're held against his ribs. The muscles tense as his fingers glide along them, Clint itching to return the touch. But Bruce has just begun, and Phil's hold has only a little give to it. 

Next Bruce returns his hands to Clint's shoulders, kneading the muscle there before trailing in and up to his neck. Clint is angled back far enough that in order to lean in for a kiss, Bruce has to put a knee between Clint's on the bed, so he does, pressing a little there and getting a strangled noise from Clint while he noses at the archer's jaw, then kisses his mouth, loose, gentle, patient movements full of tactile appreciation. 

He pulls back a little just to look at Clint's face, check in, make sure this is all still all right. 

"Hey," Clint says. "Enjoying yourself?" 

"Enjoying _you,_ " counters Bruce, smiling small and amused. 

"Good," says Clint. "Now get back to it." 

"Oh, I will," Bruce agrees, and his lips trace over Clint's ear, the left one, and up over the cheekbone, just bypassing that particular spot of sensitivity, making Clint shiver. 

Next he lowers his mouth to Clint's chest, kissing wetly, working his tongue against Clint's nipples and listening to the appreciative hums and hitches in breath that result. Then he moves on to Clint's arms, trapped as they are, kissing and biting at them and feeling the resistance in the muscles as Clint squirms. 

Bruce runs his fingers over Phil's hands in greeting as he passes, and then he explores Clint's hips and belly, working his tongue into the junction of hip and thigh and pushing inwards as his hands stroke lower, across the muscles of Clint's thighs, and Clint shifts his hips, trying to speed things up, but he can't move far, not without breaking Phil's hold. 

"Bruce," he gasps, "come on." 

It's Phil who answers, as Bruce hasn't stopped digging his tongue into places teasingly close to Clint's cock. "Oh, I don't think you set all of this up just so things could go straightforward and easy," he says with a squeeze to Clint's wrists. 

Clint laughs breathily. "Guess not," he says, and then he's reduced to little whining moans as Bruce's mouth moves to work at his other hip, his hands find their way to the lower curves of Clint's ass, and Phil resumes nipping at his neck and ear. 

But finally Bruce relents, turning to Clint's cock, brushing his lips against it everywhere, still exploring. Clint's breathing gets harsher, his moans louder, and he begins muttering more encouragements, more "Come on" and "Bruce" and "yes" and "please." Bruce brings his tongue into the mix, charting every inch of Clint's cock over again with it, but then he withdraws, and Clint whines and he jerks in Phil's hold, swearing. 

When Bruce comes back he's got the lube, and he spreads it on his fingers as Clint watches eagerly. Bruce traces Clint's balls with a slick fingertip, making the archer shudder and swear, yelling Bruce's name, before Bruce's finger moves farther back, brushing the perineum and finally gliding across its goal. Clint's back arches, but Phil holds him tight, kissing his cheek and murmuring in his ear. Phil's cock is now hard and brushing against the small of Clint's back; Bruce can feel it as his other hand slips around between them, before he grips Clint's ass to spread him open and slip that finger inside. 

Clint's whining wordlessly now, but it's sounds of both impatience and pleasure; he's pulling against Phil's restraining hold, rocking his hips back against Bruce's hands and fingers, against Phil's cock. Bruce is stretching him open and his mouth returns to Clint's cock, lips again just brushing, cheeks rubbing against it, probably far too softly, but he doesn't intend for this to end in the next two minutes. He focuses on stretching Clint, making sure he's thoroughly prepared. 

When he's satisfied with that, he draws back again to clean his hands and put on a condom, watching Clint watching him, watching Phil watching them both. When he's ready, he signals to Phil and they lift Clint, just enough so that Bruce can reposition his legs and bring them up until Clint is folded between them, supported by Phil at his back, Bruce's hands on his ass, and Bruce's shoulders under his knees. Phil still has a hold on his wrists, keeping his arms crossed over in front of him, so he is suspended helpless over nothing, with only the hands and bodies of his lovers to keep him from falling. 

Bruce pushes in. 

Clint is suspended, flying, helpless to steer, breathing in great gasps, pulling and twisting, he doesn't know whether it's with or against the motions of those holding him, but it's overwhelming, frantic, pressing, and he can't help himself. Bruce inside him is everything; there is only that. 

Bruce moves in closer, letting Clint rest against Phil's lap so he can take hold of Phil's shoulders, and then he starts thrusting into Clint, hard and fast, and the three of them are folded up so close, so tight that Bruce's thrusts catch the head of Clint's cock in the soft angle between Bruce's stomach and Clint's own arm, wrapped tight in front of him, and a shock runs through Clint every time. 

Clint isn't sure how he could hold any more desire/shock/pleasure, and then Bruce leans down to simply brush their lips together, and it's as if he's freezing/burning out from that one point, a shudder that runs up to his crown and down to his fingers and toes and explodes out of him in a crest of sound, a torrent of pleasure. His whole body curls as he comes, and every muscle tries to get in on the action, but he's tight in their arms, they have him, he's not going anywhere. They have him. He sobs, melting into their holds. 

Bruce kisses him once more, soft and trembling, and then comes, arms tightening around the other two. He pants gratefully into Clint's neck. 

Phil lets go of Clint's wrists, leaving them limp where they are, and he runs careful hands through Clint's hair, and then through Bruce's, and then he helps them both settle onto the bed. Then he takes himself in hand, finishing quickly after what he'd witnessed, Clint's beautiful writhing body and the way Bruce's thrusts pushed Clint against him. 

Bruce has wrapped Clint up in his arms, and Phil settles in at Clint's back, kissing his nape, kissing Bruce's hand where it rests on the back of his shoulder, and reaching out to curl an arm over them both, brushing lazy fingers against Bruce's back. 

Their breathing is deep, easy and quiet, and their satisfaction is profound.


	26. Day 26, Prompt 17: Masturbation

Phil's phone tells him that 'home' is calling, which is odd, because he doesn't have a contact under that label. So when he answers, he simply says, "Hello?" 

Of course there's heavy breathing. Because of course there is. 

But then Clint's voice makes itself known, saying, "Hey Phil, we decided we miss you and we needed to give you a call." 

"That's funny, because it sounds like you're in the middle of something else," Phil replies. 

"Yeah, kind of," murmurs Bruce. The ID and the presence of both their voices lead Phil to suspect the call is being routed through Jarvis's hardware. 

"I can tell you about it in detail," Clint offers. "In fact, that's kinda the plan." 

"Is it," answers Phil. He slips his phone between his ear and his shoulder and tidies away his paperwork, because however this goes, he doesn't think he's going to get much work done in the next few minutes. "You felt the need to call me and tell me about your recreational activities?" 

"They're important," says Bruce. "You should be here." 

It's the earnestness of Bruce's voice that always gets him. He means it, every time, when he says that Phil should think of Bruce's apartment as home, when he says that he has no regrets about the two of them opening their hearts to him. And, like now, when he tells Phil that their bed isn't the same without him, that he should care for himself and let the two of them care for him sometimes. It's very hard to deny Bruce anything on the rare occasion when he does make a request. 

"All right," he says. "I can't come home, but I can take a break. What is it that I need to know so urgently?" 

"Phil," Clint breathes. "You need to know how delicious Bruce looks right now. Eyes all dark, you know how they get, hair mussed up. Naked and hairy and slow and hungry, like a bear. Dunno if that makes sense. But it's great." 

Phil can hear Bruce's low chuckle through the tiny speaker of his phone, and he can, oddly enough, picture the image in his mind's eye, Bruce on hands and knees, nosing and licking at Clint like a foraging bear. "Yes," says Phil. "Tell me what he's doing." 

"Giving me a hickey," Clint replies, slightly strangled. "God, Phil. His mouth's so hot. So hot it's almost cold again, you know? Shivery." Clint gasps, tries to keep speaking. "Ngh, anchor point, God, Bruce, hah, now he's got my ear. Can't even explain how... oof... how good that is." 

Phil can picture it, the way Bruce tongues his way around Clint's left ear and the sensitive span of skin in front of it, the way it always makes Clint gasp and shudder. He closes his eyes, letting the imagined sight take over, and his own breaths are speeding a bit now. He starts on his belt, because if this is going to be his break for tonight, he's going to take full advantage of it. 

"Mmm," Phil is saying into the phone, voice still mostly composed. "Bruce, you going for his nipples next? I think you should. I want to hear what happens." 

There's a quiet twist of a moan from Clint, wheher a reaction to something Bruce is doing or merely the words, Phil doesn't know, and then Bruce's voice, deep and slightly rough, saying, "I like that idea." 

Clint's breaths audibly speed, then, and he hums appreciation just as there's a wet noise, presumably Bruce's tongue against one of Clint's nipples. "Hngh, Bruce, yeah, got his tongue on me, Phil, it's so good, you can't imagin - hn - ghe - teeth now, Jesus, Bruce," and then there's only loudish panting for a while. Phil is tracing the line of his own erection through his underwear now, thinking of the faces Clint must be making to go with those sounds. He needs more and presses, thinking of Clint's hands in Bruce's hair, Bruce's teeth and tongue playing across Clint's nipples, the tension and slackness that make their way in waves across Clint's face as he does. 

"Talk to me," Phil says, and this time his voice is not so composed. 

"Phil," Clint breathes. "Yeah. Hang on. He's got. Kissin' me all over, you should see 'im, tongue like an artist, paintin' me up." Then there's a yelp, and Phil squeezes himself harder in surprise, biting his lip to hold back the noise, and Clint is panting, then laughing helplessly, then saying, "Shit, Phil, I got a tongue in my bellybutton. Gh. Bruce, Bruce. Love you." Then there's a low hum, Bruce's reply. 

Phil floods with warmth, hearing them like that, knowing how much they want him to be part of it. He can't keep his hands off himself any longer, and he moves his underwear aside, taking a long hissing breath as his fingers touch bare skin. 

"You touchin' yourself, Sir?" Clint asks breathlessly. "Good. Bruce's got hands on me, it's perfect, force of nature, y'know? One of the slow ones, rivers makin' canyons, glaciers, one o' them. You feel it? Touch yourself slow." 

Phil barely stops himself from whimpering as he draws slow fingers up his shaft, imagining how Bruce might do it, imagining it's Bruce. He's breathing hard. "Yeah," he says. "Like this. Bruce. Wish I was there to see it." 

There are twin moans from the other end of the phone. Then there are more wet noises, and Clint gasps, "OhGodBruce." 

"Tell me." 

Phil is not beyond using his ability to draw a report out of Clint even in the most distracting of situations. 

"Hnngh mouth on me. Sir. Tongue everywhere. God, Phil. Wish you. Feel this." 

Phil circles his cock with rough, slow fingers and imagines he can, Bruce's tongue and the way it slides, wet and pebbled, across every surface it can reach. He draws a shuddering breath. 

"You close?" Clint asks, nearly a whisper, but too labored, too strained. "Phil, Phil, Phil. You gonna come with me? In a minute. Hahh. Bruce. Touchin' my nipples again, gonna be soon. You there?" 

"Yes," Phil says on a breathy exhale, working himself faster now. "Right there with you." 

"Good, good, good." Clint whines. "Phil." His voice is close to the breaking point. 

"Clint." Phil's fingers drift over the head of his own cock, light, fluttering, reminding him of that first time with Bruce. His fingers curl in tighter, moving frantically. "Ah, Bruce, yes, I'm there, I'm there." He clenches tighter, thinking of them, and reaches the pinnacle just as Clint cries out in his ear. His mouth forms a wide 'o' and his eyes close and he listens with all his being to Clint's panting cries, all the life and joy and pleasure that they convey. 

Clint's breathing slows, and he voices a long drawn out "Mmmmmmmmm." Phil can hear so much in it. "Good?" Clint asks. 

"So good," Phil answers readily, breathily. "Thank you." 

"Mmm, I'm glad," Clint answers. 

"Come home soon," says Bruce, voice low and mellow but hoarse and passionate, all at once. 

"I'll try," Phil agrees. "I really will. Love you both." 

"Love you," reply two voices in rich not-quite-unison. 

Phil smiles, determined now to make it happen, and gets back to work. 


	27. Day 27, Prompt 27: Sex toys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comic!Hulk varies so much in size, and I'm not sure about the 2008 movie, but I'm taking my cues here from the Avengers movie Hulk. The general idea I get is that in most respects, he's about double the dimensions of your average human, with two major exceptions. Greater than average musculature makes his chest and arms even thicker, and his lower torso and legs are compact enough longways that, in combination with his hunched posture, he only stands about 1-3 heads taller than most humans.

Hulk gets let out pretty often, now. He's even been in their little apartment, even though he can't stand up there without smashing the ceiling. His Hawk and his Agent like it there, so he doesn't mind sitting or lying down with them until he changes back. 

But he has his own room now, too, down in the garage levels but it's warm and nice. Stark asked him what he wanted it to be like but Hulk couldn't say. All he wants is warm and safe and room for him and his beloveds. 

Hulk has that, and he has a bed and fuzzy blanket big enough for Hulk, and he has big wooden blocks to stack up or knock down or smash to little bits if he wants, Stark told him, and he still gets unstoppably angry sometimes so he might, but he likes the blocks better whole. 

And really, the main thing the Hulk asks for is "more kisses." 

Bruce and Hulk have been negotiating on this subject since that first request. Hulk understands about sex, better and better as he and Bruce have learned to trust each other with things. He's even getting why Banner sometimes worries so much about it. It's important and delicate. 

Clint and Phil have kissed Hulk more thoroughly sometimes, after securing his agreement to give over to Banner after a while; Bruce's skin is his skin, to an extent, and when Banner lets him, he feels everything, although at a remove. 

Today is different. Today they don't make him promise. 

His lovies are so small to him; he can't kiss them the way Banner does. But they make it work. Clint wraps his arms around Hulk's head and neck, uses his whole mouth to suck at half of Hulk's bottom lip, and Hulk holds him carefully close with a hand on his back. It's Hulk's favorite thing, how much he can tell Clint feels about him from the way they touch. Hulk has loved Clint since the first time Clint kissed Bruce and made his head stop racing in circles. Hulk has loved Clint's touch since the first time he touched Hulk without fear, without hesitation. The first time anyone's done that. Hulk knows Clint loves him. 

Phil does that too, now, but his touch is different; he's curious and calm, and he's stroking Hulk's great green arm and hand with care and intimacy. He can just barely get his own hand around each one of the Hulk's fingers, and Hulk knows Phil sees the weapon there; Phil is one of those who thinks and decides and gives orders, tells Hulk to smash. But Phil rubs at his great rough knuckles with delicacy anyway. His touch is fond. 

He traces the more sensitive places, then, in between Hulk's fingers, and he kisses Hulk's fingertips. He traces lines across Hulk's palms, down the inside of Hulk's wrist to his elbow. 

Hulk is tucked up at the head of his great bed, leaned against his pillows, with Clint perched on his chest to kiss him and Phil tucked up with his back against Hulk's side, each of them encircled by a great green arm. Hulk loves them both so much for being here with him. For touching him with kindness. 

He hums, and snugs them gently closer. 

They're both dressed only in soft pants, which is what Hulk usually wears when he's out, but they like to wear more mostly; it's nice that today he gets to feel the skin of their backs and arms against his. He rubs Clint's back, and he licks into the archer's mouth, carefully, just the tip, just to taste. Clint groans hungrily, and sucks on his tongue. 

There's something different, something important about today. Yes there is, Banner agrees. They're going to try an experiment. Banner hopes Hulk will like it. 

Hulk is curious, content but with little nervous wobbles in his stomach, and suddenly he understands Banner a little better. 

Phil shifts against his side, running one of his calm, steadying hands down the line of Hulk's great shoulder. Hulk sighs into Clint's mouth. He's very happy. 

Phil's twisted around now, and he's up on his knees, mouthing at Hulk's neck and shoulder, scratching lightly at the spot behind one ear. Hulk's neck arches back and he starts to feel that pressure, that tightness that means things are going to get more urgent soon; he wants things he's only felt through Banner's skin. 

"Change back now?" Hulk asks. 

"If you want," Phil replies, continuing to scrub at the hair behind his ear. Clint just looks at him, breathing heavily. 

"If not want?" 

Clint smiles. "Then we'll take care of you," he promises. 

"Good," says Hulk, a deep, satisfied rumble. His eyes narrow in an answering smile. He leans up to kiss Clint, wet but delicate. 

Clint's hands stroke across his face, down under his jawline, and then one joins Clint's mouth on his own; Clint's tongue and a couple of fingers are in Hulk's mouth now, and a thumb rubs across his spit-slick lower lip. Hulk pets at the intrusions with his own tongue, and he makes a noise that's nearly a whine. Clint hums in appreciation, and Hulk squirms, adjusting the set of his legs, feeling the burst of sensation the movement sets off. 

Phil's hands are running down Hulk's chest now, in circles of motion both comforting and sparking, down across his ribs, down to slowly encompass his belly. Then Phil puts a hand on Hulk's crotch, rubbing through the fabric, and Hulk really does whine, his hand stilling carefully on Clint's back, his mouth falling open a little. 

"Yeah, is that good?" Clint whispers across his cheek. 

Words are hard for Hulk right now, but he eventually manages to nod. Slightly, gently, without dislodging Clint's nuzzling face from his cheek. 

Clint passes along the approval with a thumbs-up, and there's a rustling from the bag the two brought in with them, and then Phil is pulling off the Hulk's pants, touching the skin of his legs as he goes. 

Hulk trusts Phil. 

"This is going to feel warm and goopy, okay?" Phil asks, and Hulk hums and nods again, torn between wanting more of Clint's kisses and wanting to watch what Phil is doing. He decides to watch. 

Phil pours a handful of goo out of a bottle and into his hand. It smells a little sweet (like honey and a bit of spice, Banner thinks). Phil moves his hand to that most sensitive part of Hulk that's now standing straight up, fat and curved and deep green. Phil swipes his hand up the veined side, slow but firm. 

It feels slick and then warm and it feels SO GOOD. Hulk makes a startled half-shout and clutches Clint to his chest, just feeling. 

Clint's hands curl around to the back of his neck, scratching and stroking, being reassurance as Phil's hands keep doing the amazing thing, spreading the goop up the other sides now, rubbing and stroking, coating the fat green head. Hulk opens his mouth and makes one long, loud, unashamed vowel sound, mostly composed of surprise. 

It's very good, but Hulk's cock is as long as Phil's forearm and even thicker, so his hands can only touch so much of it at once. Hulk wishes for more, whining. 

One hand leaves, and the bag rustles again. Hulk watches, rapt, to see what Phil will take out. It's a long rubbery cylinder with handles on the outside, and holes in each end. Phil puts one of the holes to the tip of Hulk's cock, meets Hulk's eyes to check if this is okay to try, and at the eager look he sees, pulls down on the handles. 

Hulk nearly howls with the pressure all around him. He whines and shifts and presses his face into Clint's neck, rubbing and kissing. Clint kisses his cheek in return, whispering encouragements. 

The slickness is enough that Phil can move the thing up and down with one hand, if he shifts to get good leverage. The other hand he uses to stroke Hulk's belly, the creases of his thighs, his balls. 

Hulk pants and whines, rocking against Phil's grip on the toy, holding tight but carefully not too tight to Clint, and Clint is gasping too as the great green thumbs absently but still somewhat harshly rub against his nipples, and Hulk's rocking motions rub at him slightly through his pants. 

"Yeah," Clint is gasping, "you're incredible, Big Guy, look at you, ah, is it good? Bet it is, you look like you just found water in the desert. God. Baby. Come on. Let it go. We got you. Yeah." And if he's humping against Hulk's chest a little bit, Hulk is only pleased, seeing his hawk enjoy this too. 

Phil has got both hands back on the handles of the toy and he's moving it faster now, up and down Hulk's length, in a slightly circular motion that presses more against the veined bottom on the downstroke, as Hulk's rocking indicated he might like. Hulk's breaths are huge and loud now, like the wind in a storm, heaving hot across Clint's back and shoulders. There's a whine or a cry escaping with nearly every one, louder as Phil speeds up even more. 

Then there's a great shudder, and a lot of come, and Hulk snuffles, gasps, and sighs into Clint's neck. Clint moans in appreciation of just the knowledge of what's happened, and he clings to Hulk's neck and grinds against his chest, coming in his pants and not caring in the least. 

Phil slides the toy up and away, and then he lies face down on Hulk's stomach, pressing tender little kisses here and there. 

That was good. 

Hulk is very, very, very glad to have his lovies, the way they touch him and the way they're smart and the way they give him everything he asks for and more.


	28. Day 28, Prompt 13: Gags

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no actual gags involved, because, as we have learned, the only restraint that Bruce appreciates seeing on Clint is Phil.

After a catastrophe of a mission, involving the containment of a magically enhanced disease, Bruce is tired and worn and empty, and Clint is restless and twitchy. Phil is just trying to get them not to run afoul of each other. 

"Can you please just be quiet," Bruce is groaning into his pillow. "I want you here, but not if you're going to keep chattering like that." 

"I really can't," Clint replies. "I'm sorry. I know the mission's done and Nat's gonna be fine. But there was way too much waiting and being quiet the last few days, and I'm just done." 

"All right," says Phil. "Come here." He pulls Clint to face him. "What do you think of my trying to keep your mouth occupied?" 

Clint makes a half-grimace, half-smirk. "Sounds like you'd have a challenge on your hands," he answers, but he willingly pulls Phil towards him, crushing their mouths together. 

Bruce sighs in relief, and he rests his forehead against the back of Clint's neck, pressing himself against the archer, holding him tight. Clint hums and groans and twists in their grip, but Phil doesn't let him have space for words, lips pressing against Clint's, tongue in his mouth more often than not. Clint bites it, just to be doing something like fighting. Phil moans, agreeing with the sentiment, and the two of them just pull each other closer. But Phil takes a moment also to reach over and gently ruffle Bruce's hair. He's rewarded with another long, content sigh, and Bruce's hand reaches between them to rub at Clint's nipples, and the back of his hand glides gently and incidentally against Phil's as well. They both gasp into the kiss. 

Bruce is nosing and kissing lazily at Clint's back, at odds with Clint's mood but appreciating the movement of the muscles under his mouth and hands. His top hand stays between them, tracing Clint's abs, down and back up, brushing between their chests again and tasting the resulting shiver across Clint's spine. 

Phil keeps the kiss going, never pulling back for more than an instant but keeping the feel of it dynamic, rubbing at Clint's jaw and neck, using his teeth to nip at Clint's lips and tongue, then pulling in deeper again, kissing hard, keeping Clint occupied. 

Clint is so enjoying this, being pressed close between the two of them, Phil attacking his mouth and Bruce biting more delicately at his shoulders, all their legs tangled together in an ever-changing sprawl. He needs them both so much. He pulls Phil even farther in, teeth knocking together slightly, and he brings a hand up to close over Bruce's between them, rubbing and squeezing just a bit. Bruce clasps his hand in returned affection, holding on. 

Phil and Clint are rubbing against each other now, through their underwear and Clint's pajama pants, but all that fabric isn't doing much to dull the sensation and slow down their progress. Clint knows that Bruce is tired, moving a little slower tonight than the other two, but he's beginning to feel Bruce harden, pressing into the crease of his ass. That's an extremely welcome feeling, and Clint presses back into it and hums a broad note of appreciation, trying to talk, to ask for more, only getting more of Phil's tongue in his mouth. 

Bruce snugs even closer against the archer's back, rubbing against his ass in a slow but building series of motions. He bites gently at Clint's neck, and he whispers, "Do you want me inside you?" He watches Clint moan and nod enthusiastically, despite the fact that his tongue is caught between Phil's teeth. Bruce smiles and hums against the top of Clint's shoulderblade. 

Bruce rolls away, slow and lazy, pushing off his own boxers as he glances around to see where the lube has gotten to. The warming kind they got recently is closest, and that sounds good right now, adding intensity while still being relaxing. He snags that and a condom, and he rolls back to the welcome warmth that is Clint's back and shoulders. Clint's hands are on Phil's ass now, dragging them together with vigor, making them both moan. Bruce watches with interest for a few seconds before pushing Clint's clothes down off his ass, then carefully freeing the archer's erection. It bobs up and bumps against Phil's naked stomach, and the two both gasp, pulling together even more tightly. 

Bruce leaves Clint's pajamas half down and he slots himself back into the space behind Clint for just a moment, sliding their skin together and waking that same fire in himself too. Then he reaches for the lube, feeling the slight heat of it on his fingers, and he slides his hand down between Clint's beautifully rounded muscles and across the pucker of his ass. 

Clint jerks and moans, pressing back against it, then forward against Phil's hips again, rocking and moaning long and deep. Half-uttered syllables in fragments begin to escape the kiss, and Phil just presses against him, no longer harsh, but still insistent. 

Bruce's fingers open him, and oh, it's warm and slick and wonderful, burning gently, perfectly, opening him wide without hesitation. His rocking has gone more urgent, the little noises escaping the kiss sounding less and less like parts of words. 

Clint's hands scramble to free Phil's erection now, and they slot together just as Bruce finishes preparing himself and pushes inside Clint. There's a collective gasp, a voiced sigh from Bruce as they all line up. 

Bruce gets a solid grip on Clint's hip and he rocks forward, pressing into the tight heat that is Clint, then he pauses just to breathe and press his forehead against Clint's shoulders. Clint groans into Phil's mouth and presses back, then forward, undulating between the two points of contact, hands still on Phil's ass, pulling him in. Bruce rolls into motion, building a rhythm, sliding in and out of Clint, riding his own building wave. 

Phil puts his hand over Bruce's on Clint's hip, rubbing encouragingly, still kissing Clint, softer and more messy now that Clint's not so insistent on words. Then he reaches to stroke them both, sending shivers through the whole trio as Clint clenches around Bruce. 

Phil's hand continues its work, and they're all three of them breathing very hard now, moving in unison, clinging to each other. Bruce's mouth is slack against Clint's back as he moves, losing himself in Clint's heat. 

Clint is surrounded, permeated with the heat and pressure of their mouths and their hands and their cocks. He's balanced on the edge, straining to get as much of both of them as he can. 

But it's Phil who comes first, drunk on Clint's mouth and his desperation. He gasps and shudders and comes in his own hand, his lips never quite leaving Clint's, although his mouth is gaping open. Clint watches him with awe, and pulls them tighter together, and then all the sensations overcome Clint and he spurts between them as well, gasping loudly, fingers digging into Phil's ass. Bruce is still moving inside him, hot and quick and just right, and he keeps coming, yelling as the pleasure finally crests, but then finding himself muffled again by Phil's soft and greedy mouth. 

Bruce tips over the edge then, panting and clinging to Clint, motions stuttering and slowing. He finally stops with a soft whine, and then relaxes, and with the next breath he reaches out over Clint to lay his hand over Clint's on Phil's hip. 

They're all quiet now, all relaxed, all content with each other's presence. The mission is finally put away, and they can rest.


	29. Day 29, Prompt 22: Public/semi-public sex

Bruce has been thinking about running again. It's been a long time. But the city, the missions, the people and the pressure, they're all just starting to get to him. 

"Bruce," says Clint as he's staring into space, thinking too hard. "Bruce," he says, touching his shoulder gently and carefully, voice tinged with worry and concern. "Hey. You OK?" 

Bruce looks at Clint, not answering with words, just letting his tiredness show. 

"Oh," says Clint, and he pulls Bruce towards him. He combs fingers through Bruce's hair. 

Bruce leans against him, breathing into his neck, not sure whether he wants to hold on or let go. 

"What do you need?" Clint asks, so quietly it's almost hard to hear. 

Bruce doesn't think he can answer. He just shakes his head slightly where it's resting against Clint's shoulder. 

One of Clint's hands stays in his hair, ruffling soothingly, but the other sort of scrambles to get the phone out of Clint's pocket. His thumb dashes across it and then he puts it to his ear. 

"Phil," he says quietly once there's a voice on the other end. "Help. I think we're gonna lose Bruce." 

There are some calm, interrogative noises from the other end and Clint answers with "Yeah" and "No" and "Think so" and "Maybe." His hand never stops moving through Bruce's hair. Then he says "Lemme see," and kisses Bruce on the cheek. "You wanna go away for a while?" he says in Bruce's ear, so quiet, so hopeful. "Can we come too?" 

Bruce considers the offer, and then, finally, he lifts his arms and curls them around Clint. 

"Yeah," he rasps. "That'd be good." He presses his face into Clint's neck. He can feel Clint smile with relief. 

"Bahamas sound okay?" he asks. "Private beach an' everything. Or we could go somewhere closer, just take Lola out to the woods if you're not up for a plane." 

"Farther the better," mumbles Bruce. "Beach sounds good." He snuggles closer to Clint. 

Clint hums, pleased, and then he says into the phone, "Let's take Tony up on that." 

There's a relieved noise from the other end, and then more even words, to which Clint replies, "Yeah. You too. See you when you get here." Then he ends the call and puts his phone back in his pocket, wrapping his now free arm around Bruce's shoulders. 

Bruce tilts his head just far enough to look up at Clint's face. "Thank you," he says. "So when do we leave?" Bruce is imagining having to hang on a few more days while Phil wraps up his work and finalizes arrangements. 

"Tonight, if you want," Clint answers. "Tomorrow if you'd rather." Bruce's eyes widen, and he shifts to look more closely at Clint. Clint responds before Bruce can speak. "We're all used to picking up and going when and where we're needed." 

"I'm sorry I worried you that much," Bruce says, pressing his face into Clint's neck again. "I don't want to be a burden." 

"Hey, no. Never, Bruce. Okay? We all need this." He keeps petting Bruce's hair, slow and steady. "You just need it most. You just gotta let us know. An' things have been crazy the last few days, so I get why you hadn't. But you can, you know that, right? We wanna help." 

"Yeah," says Bruce. "Tonight would be great, actually." 

They float around the apartment for a while, getting out a couple of bags and tossing clothes into them. It's odd to be doing this again after so long, odder to see the second bag next to his and know there's going to be a third. Oddest to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he doesn't need to carry everything he wants to keep, because he will be coming back. This is home. 

"Phil's gonna go ahead and take care of food," Clint says, looking at his phone as he receives a text. "He's picking up a couple things on the way home, having Jarvis send the rest straight to the plane. Dunno whether you'll want to cook much, so we're keeping it basic." 

Bruce rubs at his face, sighing. "I'm not sure, either. I still just need to get away, see how I feel." 

"Yeah," Clint says. He rubs at Bruce's back. "Just hang tight, we'll be outta here soon." He finishes his own bag and starts one for Phil, shooting him a text to that effect. 

It's actually only a couple of hours after that, four in the afternoon, that they're in the air, Clint piloting one of Stark's jets, Phil and Bruce dozing, wrapped around each other, in the soft seats of the cabin. 

The place has a private airstrip, so they don't see a single soul as they climb out of the plane, although there is a dirt road leading out to the rest of the island. Besides that, the only signs of life in the scrub, sand and water landscape around them are the calls of birds. The house is rather large and pink, luminous in the light of the setting sun. Bruce smiles. This _is_ what Tony's house in the Bahamas would look like. 

They get their stuff inside, get their bearings, and then they all just sort of collapse into a pile on the bed, staring up at the ceiling fan and listening to the little waves on the beach outside the open window. (Somebody had been by to make the beds and turn the power on for them, but they had cleared out before the plane touched down. The world Tony Stark lives in is not the one that Bruce is used to doing his running to, but he could get used to it.) 

Their hands drift softly over each other's skin, but it's nothing more than a reminder of their presence, calm and comforting, and they all drift to sleep in pretty short order. 

Bruce wakes to a combination of thoughts and realizations. One, that he is not in his bed at the tower. Two, that Clint and Phil are both wrapped around him, breathing peacefully. Three, that there is no one else for at least a quarter mile in any direction and nothing any of them really has to get done. They settle over him as he wakes, making everything feel easier, making him feel more relaxed. 

Hulk is very pleased with this. Bruce tells him he can go swimming later. He doesn't feel like he needs to shield himself from the resulting excitement. It all comes out of him with his breath, permeating every part of him. Bruce smiles, and stretches a little, feeling the others' bodies shift around him. 

Clint groans and snugs closer to Bruce without quite waking up, but Phil shifts and lifts his head to look at Bruce with a smile. 

"Good morning," says Phil. "How are you feeling?" 

Bruce lies back and closes his eyes, breathing deep. "Much better," he answers. 

There's a silence then, a very comfortable one, Phil and Bruce simply regarding each other in the fresh morning light of the room. They'll have to discuss things later, but for right now, they need this, just being relaxed and okay together. Bruce lifts a hand to trace the lines of Phil's face, his forehead, his nose, his lips and the lines around his mouth. They've got space and time for this now, uninterrupted by any pressures. Bruce is going to soak up as much of this as he can. 

Eventually, though, Bruce has to get up to go to the bathroom, and he takes his time with everything, brushing his teeth, wandering out through the house, looking at the clear green-blue water outside, across the sand. There's skylights everywhere, and a very nice kitchen, and Bruce thinks he'll get some use out of it, but probably not today. Right now he just wants to get outside and feel on his skin that he's in the middle of nowhere, without the press of bodies that New York always has as an undercurrent. 

The porch has lounge chairs and a big blue-and-purple hammock strung across it, the kind that's just a drape of fabric, and Bruce makes a note to enjoy that later. For now he steps onto the sand, too early for it to be hot, and walks down to the edge of the water, taking in the landscape. 

Their private beach is a whole quiet little lagoon, no other buildings in sight, shallow clear water with gentle waves lapping at the sand. 

Phil comes out a minute or two later, having brushed his own teeth, woken Clint, and started coffee. He sits down on one of the chairs on the porch, watching Bruce watch the sea, being a presence without crowding Bruce. Bruce smiles at him and continues his slow and contemplative survey of the area. He gets his feet wet, and lets his thoughts fall into rhythm with the waves, with this place. 

Clint shows his face outside once the coffee's ready, holding a cup of his own and setting another next to Phil. He ponders for a moment, sipping his coffee, before putting it down on the same little table and ambling down to the shoreline and Bruce. 

"Hey," he greets, offering a hand. 

Bruce takes it, interlacing their fingers. They stand for a minute, watching the water and the birds. 

"This is perfect," Bruce says. "I needed this." 

"Yeah," says Clint. He squeezes Bruce's hand. "You look better already." 

Bruce leans into Clint's shoulder. "I am," he says, "but give me a week here and I'll be able to actually think straight again." 

"Long as you need," Clint says. "I brought my bow." 

"Of course you did." Bruce laughs, and he turns around without letting go of Clint's hand, and he starts backing into the water, pulling Clint with him and catching Phil's eye and beckoning. They've still got on boxers rather than bathing suits, but Bruce is far past caring about things like that, just loving the feel of the wet sand and the water on his skin. 

Clint reaches out for Bruce, putting his free hand on his waist, and suddenly it's like they're dancing, but with no one but Phil to watch them and no rhythm except the waves to guide them. They turn a little as they wade out across the sand, shuffling steps submerging them in the warm water up to their knees, then mid-thigh before Phil catches up to them. 

Phil's humming quietly, not recognizable as any song but more a sign of aimless contentment. He shuffles up to them, pressing himself to Bruce's back and side, kissing his cheek. "Welcome back," Phil says to Bruce. Bruce turns his head and smiles, kissing Phil. 

They're still pinwheeling out into the water, waist-deep now and Clint and Bruce's joined hands are trailing under it, and the warm waves are lapping at their backs and bellies. Then Clint raises their hands to his mouth and kisses Bruce's knuckles, salt-wet and sensitive, and then he leans forward to kiss Bruce's mouth. 

It's a kiss that's fresh and open, full of the warmth of their surroundings, the taste of salt water, the looseness that's worked its way through Bruce in the scant few hours that he's been here. It's wonderful and soft. 

They're all half-floating now, anchored more to each other than to the sandy ground under their feet. Clint maneuvers Bruce around so that he's facing Phil, and starts kissing the back of his neck and stroking hands down the submerged planes of his belly. 

"You're trying to start something here?" Phil asks with a thoughtful expression, hands on Bruce's waist. 

"What? There's no one around," Clint argues. 

"Sound carries a decent way over calm water," Phil says, gesturing to their surroundings. 

Bruce looks around too. "That's more true if the water temperature is significantly lower than the ambient, because of the refraction of sound," he muses. "But yeah, even if no one's in sight, it's possible someone could hear us." 

"So," Clint whispers playfully, "I know Phil can keep quiet if he needs to. How about you?" 

Bruce leans back slightly into Clint's resumed kisses, enjoying them before answering. "Honestly," he says, "right now I'm not sure if I really care. This is Tony's place, right? How much would you be willing to bet that any of the people in earshot would be really shocked?" 

Clint snorts a laugh. "Not a lot," he agrees. 

Phil's got a small amused smile on his face, and he nods acknowledgement of their points. "So is that a go-ahead?" he asks, pulling closer to Bruce. 

"I think so," says Bruce, tilting his head and leaning in to kiss Phil. 

Touch is slick under the waterline, ranging to sticky and salty above, with the touch of dry cheeks and ears encountering slightly damp lips. Hands range all over, dragging moisture with them, along necks and across nipples and through hair. Bruce and Phil thoroughly explore each other's mouths, the taste of each other plus toothpaste, coffee and salt. 

It's Clint who reaches around to trace the waistline of Phil's underwear, impatient to get to other things where Phil and Bruce are content just to kiss and explore each other in this new environment. The slick fingers gliding across Phil's hipbones make him flex and press forward, pushing into Bruce, and then the both of them groan quietly. 

Clint murmurs, pleased and encouraging, and pulls them closer together again, watching as their kiss turns intense and biting. He pushes wet fingers through Bruce's hair, lips trailing along his ears and down his neck, appreciating the tension and arousal that's building in front of him. He reaches around to Phil's chest next, rolling the nipples under his thumbs. Phil's breathing catches. 

He pushes against Bruce one more time, gasping against his mouth, and then he slips them both out of the restraining fabric of their underwear, letting the currents slip past freely over skin alive with sensitivity, letting them brush against each other. Bruce and Phil both shudder, and Bruce is gasping against his mouth, and Phil finally pulls their cocks together in the circle of his hand and strokes, and almost in unison, they make strangled groans of pleasure. 

Clint watches them, thoroughly enjoying their expressions and the noises they can't help making, Bruce especially, little gasps and whines, a constant stream of them now as Phil strokes them, and Clint nips at his neck and digs fingers into his shoulders. 

Bruce is lost in the touches of the other two and the gentle movement of the water, letting himself have this. His hands are looped around the back of Phil's neck and he's leaning forward, eyes unfocused as he follows only the sense of touch. Clint keeps kissing his shoulders but has hands on his hips and belly now, stroking in time with Phil's hand on their cocks, drawing as much noise as he can out of Bruce, willing him to uncurl, to let go. 

Phil is not much more aware of their surroundings than Bruce now, zeroed in as he is on Bruce's reactions, awake to every tiny sign, every twitch and breath and whimper. And they are growing in intensity, getting freer and louder. 

Phil kisses one side of Bruce's neck now while Clint kisses the other, and Phil pulls more and more noise out of Bruce, makes his breath speed and the pulse in his neck race, not letting up until finally Bruce comes with a breathy wail, arching and then going limp between them. 

Clint envelops Bruce carefully in strong arms, easily supporting his reduced weight in the water, and Phil leans into them, panting into Bruce's neck as he comes as well, and they watch, dazed, as clouds of white seed drift away into the clear water. 

And not one of them can spare the least little bit of worry for whether they were heard.


	30. Day 30, Prompt 7: Creative sexual positions

The next afternoon Bruce is drawn to that hammock on the porch, opening up those draped folds of blue and purple fabric to lay himself down across them. It's as magical as he remembered, the gentle swaying and the way the fabric envelops his body but still lets him feel the breeze on his skin. 

The hammock is huge, more than big enough for all three of them, and he's gotten into it without a stitch of clothing on. 

He doesn't mean to doze off, but when he does, he's really not surprised; he's never felt lighter, more carefree, not just since Hulk, but since _ever._

When he feels Phil's lips on his, he's still slow to wake, enjoying the way the dulled edges of his consciousness makes the soft sensations even softer. It's odd, and eventually he realizes that their mouths are slotted together upside down, as Phil leans into the hammock over his head. Bruce starts to kiss back in earnest, and Phil pulls his head up and away to look at him. 

"Hey," says Phil. "Can we join you?" 

Bruce blinks up at him, and at Clint standing by his feet and smirking, and he smiles sleepily. "Yeah," he agrees. "Come on in." 

Bruce is lying slanted across the hammock, not taking up the whole length or the whole breadth, and Clint climbs in beside him, snugging up against Bruce's side, also naked, but somehow there's no rush to be sexual. They're just hanging out together, skin to skin, intimate but relaxed. 

Phil folds himself into the end of the hammock nearest Bruce's head, perching there with his toes under Bruce's side and his hand trailing across Bruce's face and neck. He's slightly damp, and from the smell and texture of his skin on Bruce's, from a recent shower rather than a recent swim. 

Bruce wraps an arm around Clint and turns his head to kiss Phil's hand, and then he settles back almost into his doze again, listening to the ocean and the breathing of the others. 

It begins with such a small thing, Clint's fingers tracing a pattern over the skin of his stomach, but it's still so nice, so powerful in the stillness. Bruce is immediately more awake, but still filled with the same contentedness, the inertia he's found in this place. His hand rubs slightly across Clint's shoulder, but otherwise he doesn't move. Clint hums, planting his face in the hair of Bruce's chest and brushing pouty kisses through it. Bruce's hand moves to Clint's neck, playing with the short hairs there. 

Phil's still mostly sitting back and watching, eyes drawn down from the blue water of the horizon to where Clint and Bruce's fingers are moving over each other. But then Bruce's other hand snakes out towards him, skimming up his arm and across his shoulder, to linger on his jaw. Phil leans into it, smiling softly. 

A breeze blows across the porch, through the coarse weave of the hammock, and they all shiver, although it's warm enough. Bruce shifts, stretching, tugging at Phil's neck to get him to come closer. Phil leans down obligingly, kissing Bruce upside down again, and this time Bruce can appreciate the dynamics of that more, since now he's awake and aware of every inch of his skin. They lick and suck at each other's bottom lips, everything intensifying slowly but steadily as Clint's kisses make their way down Bruce's chest, hands roaming everywhere. 

It's when Clint reaches out for Phil's shoulders and the electricity in Phil's kisses increases exponentially that Bruce knows what he wants, and begins to want it badly. 

He hums, almost growling, into the kiss, pressing up into Phil's mouth and enjoying the intensity he gains when Clint's touching him, but the way it's still Phil's touch, distinct and methodical, just more motivated. 

"Oh wow," says Clint, watching them. "You two are amazing. I don't know whether I want to join in or just keep watching." 

Bruce tears himself away from Phil's mouth long enough to say, "Keep touching Phil." The sound is rough and either that or the content causes Phil to shiver; Bruce can feel it where their arms are entwined. 

"Yeah, okay, can do," says Clint somewhat breathlessly, and he shifts forward where he's straddling Bruce until his ass is across Bruce's belly, brushing at his cock, and he reaches out to where Bruce's hands are twined around Phil's upper arms and he grabs at them both, and he leans down to kiss and bite at the back of Phil's neck. 

Bruce moans, loud and long, into the intensity of the resulting kiss. 

They stay like that for a while, Bruce deeply appreciating the skill of Phil's tongue and the way Clint's touch seems to draw them both higher and tighter. But then Clint is rocking against him a bit impatiently, and he raises his head to ask, "So what's the end game here?" Breath is coming fast, jostling for space with his words. 

"Want you to fuck him while his mouth is on me," Bruce gasps, breaking the kiss for the shortest time possible. 

Clint groans happily in reply. "Yeah," he answers. "Just gotta grab supplies. Left some on the chair here." He shimmies out of the enveloping fabric of the hammock, kissing Bruce's chest, belly, and legs as he goes. 

Phil and Bruce shift, Bruce arranging himself across the breadth of the hammock now, Phil kissing him one more time and then catching his eye with a smile before arranging himself over Bruce, mouth hovering over Bruce's cock and cock positioned and waiting for Bruce's mouth. "Is this okay?" says Phil. 

"Perfect," Bruce says, grabbing on to Phil's hips and squeezing eagerly. He can see Clint walking up to stand over them, lube in hand and practically drooling. He nods encouragement. 

"Ready?" Clint asks. 

Phil replies almost immediately, "Yes, please." 

Phil lets Clint get his first finger in and stretching before he puts his mouth on Bruce. His breathing is carefully even and calm but his mouth gives him away, hot and frenzied, and Bruce gasps and squirms, adjusting his legs up and apart, fingers digging into Phil's hips. 

"God, Phil," he says. "Yes." His slack lips brush against Phil's cock, and that just makes Phil more uncoordinated, messy, and that is amazing. Bruce does it again. Phil makes a strangled noise, then sucks with a definite air of determination. 

Clint is two fingers in now and stretching Phil open eagerly, one hand over Bruce's on Phil's hip. Bruce watches him, watches his face, the hunger there. Then he licks at the head of Phil's cock, and the resulting stutter in Phil's motions makes him moan. 

Clint pushes into Phil, and Bruce wraps his mouth around Phil, and Phil's mouth just goes slack for a moment, and there's something about that that's just perfect. Bruce hums and stretches, rolling his hips a bit, moving in that wet relaxed opening with lazy enjoyment before it closes over him again, resuming its work. 

Clint's thrusts start slow and careful, but they don't stay that way for long, Clint realizing that the free movement of the hammock means jostling Phil sharply isn't a disastrous prospect for the other two. They're locked together with hands on each other's hips and the hammock is moving with the thrusts, an increasing, juddering rhythm as Clint lets himself go. Phil's mouth is alternately passionate and lost, a combination that Bruce savors, and he sucks Phil's cock appreciatively himself, not minding in the least the odd sensation of two sets of balls impacting each other rhythmically in the vicinity of his forehead. Bruce and Clint's fingers have slid to interlocking positions on Phil's hips, and that contact is another point of incredible sensation and joy. 

Everything builds from there, the weight of Phil's arousal in his mouth, the urgency of Phil's lips and tongue on his own, the vibrations of Clint's thrusts and sounds of Clint gasping and murmuring and swearing. 

Bruce is full to bursting with all of it, and when Phil moves a hand just far enough to brush his fingers against Bruce's balls as he gives another focused swallow, there's a tightening, an anticipation, so Phil does it again, but with slightly more pressure, and Bruce lets go, coming, curling and shuddering against the fabric of the hammock, gasping and moaning around Phil's cock as Phil swallows again around his. 

Phil pulls off and he presses his forehead to Bruce's belly, breathing hard. Bruce is drifting a bit, but he moves his attention to Phil's cock more fully now, licking languidly but thoroughly across all angles of the head, then running his lips down the shaft as he takes in as much as he can. 

Phil is now panting, voice trying to escape with every one of Clint's thrusts, and they're increasing in pace as Clint nears the edge, making more noise but fewer words. Bruce sucks hard and Phil comes, a choked cry escaping, hands tightening on Bruce's hips, and Bruce loves all of it, the noises, the passion of it, the feeling of Phil letting go and pulsing into his mouth, coming in spurts, more with every impact of Clint's balls on Phil's. Bruce swallows and swallows, and then feels Clint's hands tense on Phil's hips as he loses the rhythm completely and just grinds into Phil, coming with a long low whine that seems endless, one perfect unending expression of bliss. 

Then Clint stills at last, breathing in again, and they all loosen from where they're tight pressed to each other, Clint pulling out and dealing with the condom while Phil shifts around to lie next to Bruce, and then Clint climbs in beside them again and they all lie in a sated pile, feeling the breeze against their damp skin. 

The ocean keeps its eternal rhythm in the background, and Bruce contemplates where they are and how much his boyfriends have done for him over the last three days. It's a lot, he knows. He also knows he needed it, deeply and desperately. 

"I don't even know how to thank you both for all of this," Bruce says quietly. "There's so much." 

"You don't have to," Phil murmurs, fingers scrabbling in Bruce's hair. 

"We love you," Clint says, nuzzling against Bruce's chest a bit. "Get that through your stubborn science-genius skull." 

Finally, Bruce starts to really get how true that is, what it means, because it isn't even a question when one of them is hurting. Bruce helps all he can, no hesitation. It's a profound realization. 

There's only one thing that needs saying. 

"I love you too," he says roughly, and tugs them both closer.


End file.
